" 

| 


^ 


9S-S 


•^ 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS. 


BY 


DONN    PIATT, 


Author  of  "  Memories  of  the  Men  who  Saved  the  Union,"  "The  Lone  Grave 

of  the  Shenandoah,  and  Other  Tales,"  "The  Rev.  Melancthon 

Poundex,"  Sunday  Meditations,"  etc. 


CINCINNATI: 

ROBERT  CLARKE  &  Co.,  PUBLISHERS. 
1893. 


COPYRIGHT,  1893, 
Bv.  ELLA  ^KI.RBY  PtATT. 


CONTENTS. 

POEMS— 

THE  BLOOM  WAS  ON  THE  ALDER  AND  THE  TASSEL 
ON  THE  CORN,  .....          9 

MAC-O-CHEE. — I,       .....  n 

WE  PARTED  AT  THE  OMNIBUS,          ...         14 
A  SAINT,         ......  17 

LAKE  GEORGE,  ...  .18 

BY  THE  GOLDEN  GATE,       ....  22 

THE  CANDIDATE,  .....        24 

THE  DINNER  HORN,  ....  26 

OBITUARY. — F.  K.,         .....        29 

To ,       ...  30 

THE  LABORER'S  HYMN,  ...  32 

THE  OHIO  BOAT-HORN,      .  .  .  .  34 

THE  BLUE  JAY,  .  .  .  -36 

GARFIELD  DEAD,      .  .  .  .  39 

AN  ADIEU,  .  .  .  .  .  .        44 

A.  C.  F 48 

SONG,         ...  .  .  .  .  .51 

FROM  AN  ALBUM,     .  .  .  •    .  .          53 

I  SEND  You  YOUR  LETTERS,  .  -55 

(v) 


R41958 


vi  Contents. 

POEMS.—  Continued. 

MAC-O-CHEE. — II,      .....  57 

THE  LITTLE   SHOE,        .            .            ,            .  .        61 

SERENADE,      ......  63 

MONODY,               ......  65 

SONG  TO  ,        .            .            .            .  69 

AFTER  THE  BALL,          .                        ...  70 

IN  MEMORIAM— B.  M.  P.,               ...  73 

MELINDA'S  TRAIL,          ...  •        74 

ARIEL,              ......  77 

NEW  WORDS  TO  A  CHOICE  OLD  SONG,       ,  .        79 

ONE  MORE  UNFORTUNATE,            .            .  81 

A  PATHETIC  BALLAD  OF  CHICAGO,  „        86 

YE  GRANGER  is  POKING   ROUND,            .            .  89 

LOUISE    KlRBY  PlATT — EPITAPH,            .                 .  .92 

To  A  STAR,                 .            .            .            .  ^ 
A  MEMORY, 

7T 

DEATH  OF  CUSTER,             ....  96 

THE  COWBOY,      .....  ^g 

KING  MIDAS'S  TOUCH,         ...  IOO 

THE  KICKERS,                  ...  IO2 

WE  MAY  NOT  MEET  AGAIN,        .            .  Io. 

A  JUDICIAL  CHARACTER,         .            ...  106 
MORNING  PRAYER,                , 


To  DIE  ALONE, 


los 


Contents.  vn 

POEMS.—  Continued. 

CHANGE,          ...  109 

TECUMSEH,  ...  .no 

OH,  SING  NO  MORE,  .  .  .  m 

DEATH,       ...  ...       113 

PLAYS.— 

LOST  AND  WON,        ....  "5 

A  KING'S  LOVE,  .  .  .192 

EMOTIONAL  INSANITY,         ...  271 

BLENNERHASSETTXS   ISLAND,  ...      303 


POEMS. 


The  Bloom  mas  on  the  Aider  and  the  Tassel  on  the  Corn. 


T   HEARD  the  bob-white  whistle  in  the  dewy  breath  of 

morn ; 

The  bloom  was  on  the  alder  and  the  tassel  on  the  corn. 
T  stood  with  beating  heart  beside  the  babbling  Mac-o-chee, 
To  see  my  love  come  down  the.  glen  to  keep  her  tryst 

with  me. 

I  saw  her  pace,  with  quiet  grace,  the  shaded  path  along, 
And  pause  to  pluck  a  flower,  or  hear  the  thrush's  song. 
Denied  by  her  proud  father  as  a  suitor  to  be  seen, 
She  came  to  me,  with  loving  trust,  my  gracious  little  queen. 

Above  my  station,  Heaven  knows,  that  gentle  maiden 
shone, 

For  she  was  belle  and  wide-beloved,  and  I  a  youth  un- 
known. 

The  rich  and  great  about  her  thronged,  and  sought  on 
bended  knee 

For  love  this  gracious  princess  gave  with  all  her  heart  to  me. 

(9) 


i  o  The  Bloom  was  on  the  Alder,  etc. 

So  like  a  startled  fawn,  before  my  longing  eyes  she  stood, 
With  all  the  freshness  of  a  girl  in  flush  of  womanhood 
.1  trembled  .is  I  put  my  arm  about  her  form  divine, 
And.  stammered  as,  .in  awkward  speech,  I  begged  her  to 
'  -be  mine. 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  pattering  rain  that  lulls  a  dim-lit 
dream ; 

'T  is  sweet  to  hear  the  song  of  birds,  and  sweet  the  rip- 
pling stream ; 

'T  is  sweet  amid  the -mountain  pines  to  hear  the  south 
wind  sigh — 

More  sweet  than  these  and  all  besides  was  th'  loving,  low 
reply. 

The  little  hand  I  held  in  mine  held  all  I  had  in  life, 

To  mold  its  better  destiny  and  soothe  to  sleep  its  strife. 

'T  is  said  that  angels  watch  o'er  men,   commissioned  from 

above ; 
My  angel  walked  with  me  on  earth  and  gave  to  me  her 

love. 

Ah !  dearest  wife,  my  heart  is  stirred,  my  eyes  are  dimmed 

with  tears; 

I  think  upon  the  loving  faith  of  all  these  bygone  years; 
For  now  we  stand  upon  this  spot,  as  in  that  dewy  morn, 
With  the  bloom  upon  the  alder  and  the  tassel  on  the  corn. 


Mac-o-chee  — /.  1 1 


pae-0-ehee — I. 


TV/fY  days  among  these  wilds  are  spent 

In  restful,  calm  repose ; 
No  carking  cares  or  discontent 

Disturb  life's  fitter  close. 
Beyond  these  wooded  hills  I  hear 

The  world's  unceasing  roar, 
As  breaks  upon  some  inland  ear, 
The  tumult  of  a  shore. 

To  me  these  are  no  solitudes ; 

For,  all  by  memory  tinged, 
From  somber  shadows  of  the  woods 

To  meadows  willow-fringed, 
Are  peopled  with  the  forms  I  lost 

And  loved  so  long  ago, 
Ere  on  life's  ocean  tempest  tossed 

I  tasted  of  its  woe. 


1 2  Mac-o-chee — /. 

The  shy  thrush  sings  for  me  a  strain 

No  other  ear  may  hear, 
That  brings  to  dreamy  life  again 

The  forms  my  heart  holds  dear ; 
The  red  bird  warbles  overhead 

Its  mellow  woodland  note, 
Recalling  voices  of  the  dead 

Hid  in  its  tiny  throat. 

The  cat-bird  carols  to  the  day, 

The  bob-white  whistles  free, 
The  restless  jay  shrieks  far  away, 

Babbles  the  Mac-o-chee ; 
There  's  not  a  scene  nor  sound  but  brings 

Its  own  sweet  memory, 
There  's  not  a  flower  nor  shrub  but  flings 

Its  magic  spell  o'er  me. 

Ah,  what  to  me  the  ceaseless  din, 

This  fevered  thing  called  life — 
What  fools  may  fail,  what  knaves  may  win, 

In  their  ignoble  strife  ? 
This  world  so  round  is  cold  and  bare, 

And  tempts  me  not  to  roam, 
For  heartless  greed  and  gaunt-eyed  care 

Will  drive  the  weary  home. 


Mac-o-chee — /.  I3 

The  trees  I  trim,  the  flowers  I  tend, 

Have  but  one  sunny  mood ; 
My  honest  dog,  my  trusty  friend, 

Has  no  ingratitude. 
And,  oh,  the  crowning  joy  of  life, 

Where'er  that  life  may  be, 
Is  the  true  heart  that  through  all  strife 

Still  loving  trusts  in  me  ! 


14  We  Parted  at  the  Omnibus. 


We  Parted  at  the  Omnibus. 


'1 1  7E    parted  at  the  omnibus,  I  never  can  forget, 

Your  eyes,  my  dove,  like  stars  above,  with  dew  were 

heavy  wet, 
Your  luggage,  love,    I  handed  up,  as  the   driver  'round 

did  pull, 

I  could  not  speak,   for,   oh !  my  heart,   like  the  omnibus, 
was  full. 

Your  slender  hand's  six-buttoned  glove  lay  nestling  soft 

in  mine, 

Those  tender  eyes  upon  me  shone  in  sadness  so  divine ; 
'*  Through  life,    my  love,   I  go  with  you,"  I  boldly  had 

begun, 
When  spoke  a    German    passenger:   "Dere's  only  zeats 

vor  vun." 

Your  miniature  I  had,  my  sweet,  all  painted  warm  and 

bland, 
My   photograph   I   handed   you,    as   the   agent  gave  his 

hand. 


We  Parted  at  the  Omnibus.  1 5 

"You'll  write  to  me,  I  know  you  will,  this  aching  heart 

to  ease, 
And  every  line  x  from  you  will  be" — "  Miss,  ten  cents,  if 

you  please." 

I  placed  you  in  a  corner,  dear,  to  take  that  dreary  ride, 
I  saw  a  pair  of  checkered  pants  close  sitting  at  your  side ; 
With  gun  and  hound  from  out  the  town  to  hunt 't  was 

going  down ; 
I  heard  a  suit  of  rusty  black  call  pants  a  Mister  Brown. 

With   wooden   damn   the   stage  door  slammed  and  shut 

you  from  my  sight, 
I  felt,  indeed,  that  all  was  wrong,  when  the  driver  called 

"all  right." 

Off  rolled  the  yellow  misery  that  took  of  mine  no  heed ; 
Four  spanned  hatracks  prancing,  a  racker  in  the  lead. 

The  war  came   on,  and   I  went  off— what   patriot  heart 

could  lag  ? 

I  seized  a  musket  in  my  zeal  and  rallied  round  the  flag ; 
I  left  two  fingers  on  the  field  where  gallant  Hooker  led, 
And  lost  a  leg  at  Shiloh,  where  Sherman  lost  his  head. 

I  fought  and  marched,  and  starved,  alas !  the  toughest  of 

our  set ; 
A  captain  in  the  line,  my  girl,  a  gen'ral  by  brevet. 


1 6  We  Parted  at  the  Omnibus. 

Of  checkered  pants  I  got  a  view,  resplendent  in  the  blue, 
As  sutler  bold,  he  rallied  too  where  profits  did  accrue. 

When  peace  her  downy  pinions  spread  o'er  all  our  land 

and  sea, 

I  stumped  me  home,  a  veteran,  with  war's  sad  legacy ; 
I  sought  you  love,  to  find,  alas !  no  footing  left  to  me, 
For  General  Brown  was  to  the  front,  a  millionaire  was  he. 

'T  was  at  a  grand  reunion,  given  in  honor  of  our  cause, 
The  banners  waved,  the  champagne  popped,  I  got  some 

wild  applause ; 

I  saw  you  enter,  sweet  and  fair,  the  General  led  you  down, 
You  leaned  to  him  with  loving  trust,  he  called  you  Mrs. 

Brown, 


A  Saint.  17 


ft  Saint. 


O  O  gentle  yet  so  just,  so  firm  and  yet  so  kind, 
With  never  a  thought  of  self  to  mar  the  good 
And  noble  nature  of  her  womanhood ; 

Such  as  the  mother  striving  us  to  bind 

In  links  of  flowers  to  our  dear  Lord,  her  son. 
He  sought  to  lift  us  to  a  heaven  above — 
She  brought  that  heaven  down  to  earth  in  love 

And  wrote  upon  our  hearts,  "  Thy  will  be  done! " 

In  meek  submission  to  life's  sorest  ills. 

Ah !  darling  wife,  thy  sainted  patience  stills 

The  tumult  of  my  being.     Martyrs  die 

And  leave  God's  glory  here  to  mark  their  loss; 

You  living,  bear,  with  no  impatient  sigh, 

Through  all  the  years,  the  torture  of  the  cross. 


1 8  Lake  George. 


Lake  George. 


T   LINGER  sadly,  loth  to  say  adieu 

To  that  which  of  me  forms  so  sweet  a  part; 
The  crystal  waters,  and  the  mountains  blue, 
Are  mirrored  deeply  in  my  heart  of  heart, 
And  lake  and  mountains,  rocks  and  wooded  streams, 
Now  pass  from  pleasant  seeing  to  my  world  of  dreams. 

Upon  the  lofty  wooded  mount  I  stand, 

Where  erst  of  old  the  simple  huntsman  stood. 

I  see  about  me  far  and  wide  expand 
The  scenes  of  lake  and  mountains,  isles  and  wood ; 

Like  him  I  linger  loth  to  break  the  spell, 

That  lives  in  one  sad  word,  and  vainly  says  farewell. 

How  like  vast  giants  in  their  deep  repose 

These  mountains  rest  beneath  the  autumn  day ; 

From  early  morn  until  the  evening's  close 
The  dreamy  shadows  on  their  summits  play; 

While  in  the  distance  dim  they  catch  the  hue 

Of  heavens,  and  melt  in  cloudland's  deepest  tint  of  blue. 


Lake  George.  19 

I  stood  by  lakes  where  peaks  do  pierce  the  sky, 
Snow-clad,  and  grand  in  rocky  solitudes, 

I  saw  the  homes  where  round  them  living  lie 
Tradition-haunted  tales  of  love  and  feuds ; 

Sweet  human  gossip  chased  the  gloom  so  drear, 

And  gave  to  what  was  grand  humanity  more  dear. 

They  had  no  beauty  like  to  thine,  Lake  George, 

Where  all  that's  grand,  with  all  that's  sweet,  entwine. 

I  see  thy  fairy  isles,  while  down  each  gorge 
The  birch  and  maple  tint  the  gloomy  pine ; 

Thy  mountain  sides  are  forests  wide  and  deep, 

Where  song  birds  nestle  and  the  eagles  scream  and  sweep. 

And  all  is  wild,  as  in  that  early  day 

The  nations  found  a  highway  on  thy  shore, 

And  meeting,  battled  for  a  world's  wide  sway; 
Thy  mountains    wakened  to  the  mouthing  roar 

Of  deadly  cannon,  while  from  out  each  glen 

Came  back  the  doubled  thunder  to  the  strife  of  men. 

And  all  is  wild,  as  when  the  solemn  mind 
Of  Cooper  told  its  tale  of  savage  war ; 
One  were  not  startled  in  the  wood  to  find 
•    The  sage  Mohican,  or  wild  Iroquois, 
The  dusky  shadows  of  those  shadowy  things 
That  will  survive  our  life,  in  men's  imaginings. 


D  Lake  George. 

Ah!  lovely  lake,  how  I  do  long  to  dwell 

In  humble  quiet  on  thy  fairy  shore, 
With  rod,  and  books,  and  those  I  love  so  well, 

Forgetting  and  forgot,  live  evermore; 
To  float  upon  thy  water's  peaceful  sheen, 
Where  love  is  life,  and  life  a  poet's  happy  dream. 

It  may  not  be,  for  I  am  doomed  to  fight 
Where  the  arena  calls  for  deadly  strife, 

Facing  the  throng,  to  win,  like  Ishmaelite, 
A  heritage  of  hate — a  dreary  life — 

Beloved  by  few,  misunderstood  by  all, 

Where  wit  seems  wantonness  and  impulse  is  but  gall. 

Earth  carries  daylight  in  the  heart  of  night, 
Swinging  its  glare  amid  eternal  gloom ; 

So  in  our  hearts  we  nurse  our  own  delight, 
Nor  measure  aught  by  other's  hope,  or  doom ; 

We  are  not  what  we  seem  to  each,  and  yet 

We  haste  to  try  and  punish,  with  no  vain  regret. 

But  why,  in  scenes  like  these,  make  weak  complaint, 
Array  our  little  ills,  and  fight  them  o'er  ? 

When  life  is  like  the  shadows,  swift  and  faint, 
That  dim  these  waters  and  are  seen  no  more. 

Eternal  hills  are  here,  the  flower  and  stream, 

Themselves  survive  the  race  that  pass  as  in  a  dream. 


Lake  George.  21 

Now  dies  apace  the  golden  autumn  day, 

Now  steal  the  ghostly  shadows  from  the  glen, 

The  stars  are  gathering  in  their  glad  array, 
And  stillness  falls  upon  the  haunts  of  men ; 

Earth  parts  from  me,  and  closing  on  my  view, 

Back  to  the  busy  world  I  go.     Fair  lake,  adieu ! 


22  I  Know  that  by  the  Golden  Gate. 


I  pom  that  by  the  Golden  Gate. 


T  KNOW  that  by  the  golden  gate, 

Where  Heaven  the  sinless  see, 
Mine  own  doth  longing  watch  and  wait, 

In  joy  to  welcome  me ; 
No  subtle  change  of  spirit  birth, 

Can  aught  of  love  disown, 
And  she — my  angel  while  on  earth — 

Is  mine  before  God's  throne. 

No  robes  of  light  may  hide  that  form, 

No  joys  can  change  that  voice, 
That  mid  life's  dreary  toil  and  storm, 

Had  made  my  heart  rejoice ; 
Ah  !  darling,  in  those  blessed  spheres, 

So  far  from  sin  and  care, 
One  voice  of  praise  wells  up  through  tears, 

For  that  I  am  not  there. 


I  Know  that  by  the  Golden  Gate.  23 

Above  thy  grave,  child  like  apart, 

I  wring  my  hands  and  weep, 
Dread  silence  chills  my  aching  heart 

To  desolation's  deep ; 
My  life  had  end  where  thine  had  birth, 

When  freed  from  care  and  pain, 
And  thou,  who  brought  me  Heaven  on  earth, 

Lifts  earth  to  God  again. 


24  The  Candidate. 


The  Candidate. 


politician,  smooth  and  bland, 
Has  many  winning  ways, 
And  to  and  fro  throughout  the  land 
He  travels  all  his  days. 

A  modest  man,  of  modest  ends, 

He  runs  reluctantly; 
He 's  ever  forced,  by  certain  friends, 

A  candidate  to  be. 

It  injures  much  his  business 

To  be  a  public  func.; 
For  oftentimes,  while  under  stress, 

He  getteth  beastly  drunk. 

He  speaks  a  piece  to  every  man, 
However  low  and  rude ; 

Much  takes  he  from  newspapers,  and 
Much  is  a  platitude. 


The  Candidate.  25 

The  beer  to  drink,  the  babes  to  kiss, 

He  hastily  doth  pass ; 
Among  the  agriculturists 

He  tramples  down  the  grass. 

He  asks,  with  earnest  bend  of  head 

After  your  family, 
And  be  they  sick,  or  well,  or  dead, 

Never  a  cuss  cares  he. 


26  The  Dinner  Horn. 


The  Dinner  Koim. 

AS   SUNG    BY   OLD    SHACK. 


T~\E  sun  shine  hot,  as  I  hoe  de  cawn, 

•        De  sweat  rolls  down  like  rain, 
Its  nuffin  but  work  from  early  mawn, 

Till  de  stahs  peep  out  again ; 
Oh !  white  man  eats  de  whitest  bread, 

De  darkey  eats  de  pone, 
De  white  man  has  de  fedder  bed, 

De  darkey  shucks  an'  stone. 

Wake  up,  wake  up,  ole  Dinah, 
Ise  horn'  here  since  mawn, 

Ise  weak  as  sin,  Ise  comin'  in, 
Oh !  blow  de  dinneh  hawn. 

De  bob-white  whistles  for  his  wife, 
De  cat-bird  mews  low  down, 

De  jay 's  a  screamin'  for  de  strife, 
De  crows  am  cawin'  round ; 


The  Dinner  Horn.  2  7 

De  woodfrush  rolls  de  music  out , 

From  top  ob  yonder  tree, 
Dere  's  best  ob  music  all  about, 

But 't  aint  de  best  fob  me. 

Wake  up,  wake  up,  ole  Dinah, 
From  day  dat  I  was  bawn, 

I  'd  start  an'  stan',  and  clap  my  ban', 
To  heah  de  dinneh  hawn. 

De  preachah  say  dat  ole  Gabril 

Has  hawn  to  wake  de  dead, 
He  blows  from  off  de  highest  hill, 

An'  all  jes  raise  de  head; 
I  wants  to  heah  dat  'ligious  toon, 

To  set  dis  spirit  free, 
But  Oh !  ole  Gabe,  along  'bout  noon ! 

De  dinneh  hawn  foh  me. 

Wake  up,  wake  up,  ole  Dinah, 

I  perish  in  de  cawn, 
Its  noon  ob  sun,  de  hoe-cake 's  done, 

Oh !  blow  de  dinneh  hawn. 

Miss  Lilley  opes  pianner, 

Dis  darkey  foh  to  please, 
Her  white  hands — oh  Susanner ! 

Charm  music  from  de  keys ; 


28  The  Dinner  Horn. 

Dey  fluttah  like  de  snow-white  bird, 

Above  de  tasseled  cawn, 
Dey  catch  my  soul — what's  dat  I  heard? 

Good  Lawd!  de  dinneh  hawn. 

Blow  high,  blow  low,  Oh !  Dinah, 
Jes  make  de  windin'  stawm, 

Foh,high  or  low,  I  draps  dat  hoe, 
When  comes  de  dinneh  hawn. 


Obituary — F.  K.  29 


Obituary. — F.  K. 


Art  and  eloquence, 

And  all  the  shows  o'  the  world  are  frail  and  vain, 
To  weep  a  loss  that  turns  their  light  to  shade. 
It  is  a  woe  "  too  deep  for  tears,"  when  all 
Is  reft  at  once,  when  some  surpassing  Spirit, 
Whose  light  adorned  the  world  around  it,  leaves 
Those  who  remain  behind,  nor  sobs  nor  groans, 
The  passionate  tumult  of  a  clinging  hope  ; 
But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranquillity, 
Nature's  vast  frame,  the  web  of  human  things, 
Birth  and  the  grave,  that  are  not  as  they  were. 


3°  To  .; 


To 


"\  1  7HEN  from  the  half-forgotten  past 

Return  my  youthful  days, 
And  through  the  rift  of  clouds  o'ercast 

The  light  of  memory  plays, 
My  eyes  are  dimmed  with  idle  tears 

That  dead  affections  claim  ; 
For  thy  sweet  face  so  sweet  appears 

At  mention  of  thy  name. 

I  knew  thee  when  we  both  were  young, 

And  in  Bohemia's  clime 
We  lived  and  laughed  and  loved  and  sung 

With  art  alone  divine. 
Ah !  what  a  subtle,  girlish  grace 

You  o'er  my  pathway  threw — 
An  angel  in  an  earthly  place, 

So  fair  and  frank  and  true. 


To  

And  many  a  love  since  that  far  time 

Rose  tints  my  wild  career, 
And  beauty,  wit  and  grace  divine, 

Claims  each  its  smile  or  tear ; 
*Yet  over  all  thy  earnest  eyes 

Return  so  sweet  to  me, 
As  if  a  single  star  should  rise 

To  light  a  troubled  sea. 

So  you  're  a  mother,  matron,  sage, 

And  I  am  growing  old : 
With  all  the  faults  of  frosty  age, 

So  cynical  and  cold ; 
And  yet  my  heart  within  me  glows 

When  memory  o'er  it  plays, 
As  sunset  tints  Sierran  snows 

With  summer's  softest  rays. 

I  hear  the  waves  around  me  roar, 

And  where  the  dark  clouds  dip, 
Fades  out  the  dim  and  distant  shore, 

As  sails  our  stately  ship, 
Ah !  thus  I  pass  from  out  my  past 

And  sweet  romance  of  life, 
To  where  my  weary  lot  is  cast 

In  bitterness  and  strife. 


32  The  Laborers  Hymn. 


The.  Labor's  flymn. 


rich  and  proud  they  pass  me  by, 
For  I  am  poorly  born, 
A  workman  rough,  but  naught  care  I 

For  all  their  lofty  scorn. 
I  feel  my  manhood  in  me  stir 
No  envy  of  their  greed, 
For  Christ  was  bred  a  carpenter, 
And  God  our  work  decreed. 

My  humble  home  is  by  the  road, 

Where  my  dear  ones  abide ; 
I  care  not  for  the  rich  abode, 

Where  dwells  dishonest  pride ; 
For  peace  and  love  breathe  o'er  us  all, 

And  we  can  spurn  the  scorn 
That  looked  down  on  the  humble  stall 

Where  Christ  himself  was  born. 


The  Laborer's  Hymn.  33 

I  know  that  from  our  dreary  toil 

They  steal  their  silks  and  lace ; 
Their  very  bread  wrought  from  the  soil 

We  give  them,  with  their  grace ; 
And  man  must  sweat  where  fraud  prevails 

And  theft  holds  high  command, 
For  cunning  wins,  while  labor  fails, 

Throughout  the  freest  land. 

Let  not  despair  our  souls  enthrall, 

For  God  is  with  the  right, 
And  we  who  feed  and  foster  all 

As  readily  can  smite, 
When  guant  privation  haunts  the  den, 

And  children  cry  for  bread, 
We  wait  the  painted  vermin  then, 

When  Labor  strikes  them  dead. 

We  patient  beasts,  with  human  hearts, 

Can  bear  the  burden  long, 
But  comes  a  time  when  nature  starts 

To  right  the  cruel  wrong, 
As  when  miasma  fills  the  air, 

With  fever's  fearful  train, 
The  thunder's  roll,  the  lightning  glare, 

And  storms  come  on  amain. 


34 


The  Ohio  Boat-Horn. 


The  Ohio 


"O  boatman!  wind  thy  horn  again." 

WM.  O.  BUTLER. 

/^\  LIST !  the  boat-horn's  soft  refain 

O'er  eve's  still  waters,  swelling  clear, 
So  wildly  sweet,  so  sad  a  strain, 

Ne'er  woke  before  to  charm  the  ear. 
What  dreams  its  melody  awakes 

Of  life  upon  the  lost  frontier, 
When  to  the  rivers,  forests,  lakes 

There  came  the  sturdy  pioneer. 

Out  on  the  wave,  while  floating  down, 

He  boldly  trod  his  little  deck, 
And  dreamed,  his  dearest  close  around, 

Of  wild  adventure,  storm  and  wreck ; 
That  strain  he  wound  his  way  to  cheer, 

In  dewy  eve  or  golden  morn, 
The  startled  Indian  paused  to  hear 

In  echoes  sweet  his  simple  horn. 


The  Ohio  Boat-Horn.  35 

That  note  erst  smote  on  tower  and  town 

Its  winding  challenge,  clear  and  high, 
And  battling  hosts  for  land  and  crown, 

Were  summoned. out  to  do  or  die; 
And  so  it  herald  empire  then 

O'er  wilds  that  stretched  from  sea  to  sea. 
Wild  music  to  the  tramp  of  men 

That  told  of  millions  yet  to  be. 

O  boatman  !  wind  thy  horn  again, 

I  fain  would  hear  its  note  once  more. 
There  lives  along  its  magic  strain 

The  deeds  our  fathers  wrought  of  yore. 
Their  forms  are  moldering  into  dust, 

Their  very  homes  have  passed  away, — 
How  strange  your  strain  should  hold  in  trust 

Their  sacred  memories  from  decay ! 


36  The  Blue  Jay. 


The  Blue  Jay. 


HPHE  little  scamp,  I  hear  his  shriek  of  warning 

That  tells  his  blue  police  the  foe  is  nigh — 
A  goggle-eyed  old  owl  caught  out  by  morning, 

So  dazed  by  light  he  can  not  fight  nor  fly. 
From  field  and  forest,  haystack,  fence  and  thicket, 

Shrieking  like  fiends  they  swiftly  gather  in ; 
There 's  no  pursuit  of  gain,  or  grain,  but  quick  it 

Drops  the  bit  for  duty  in  the  din. 

The  night  assassin  sees  in  grotesque  wonder 

Blue  streaks  about  his  horned  noddle  dart; 
From  side  to  side  they  flash — now  o'er,  now  under— 

And  every  prick  but  make  him  snap  and  start. 
Ah !  have  a  care,  most  noble,  daring  Captain — 

A  clutch,  a  snap,  a  shriek  of  wild  despair  : 
There 's  one  brave  jay  beyond  the  need  of  Chaplain- 

A  cloud  of  feathers  flash  upon  the  air. 


The  Blue  Jay.  37 

Then  comes  a  blessed  silence  of  a  minute ; 

For  Death's  grim  presence  even  chills  a  jay. 
Brief  space  for  grief,  the  shrieks  again  begin  it ; 

Angn  the  woods  are  ringing  with  the  fray. 
The  downy,  pinioned  thief,  night's  dark  marauder, 

Feels  all  the  anguish  of  a  hopeless  fight 
With  foes  despised ;  and  so  in  grave  disorder 

He  spreads  his  wings  and  fairly  takes  to  flight. 

How  like  a  dream  he  floats  o'er  field  and  meadow, 
Fast  followed  by  his  foes'  victorious  cries, 

To  where  the  burr-oak  glen,  with  trees  bent  head  low, 
Dims  the  fierce  light  for  better  use  of  eyes. 

The  little  scamps  accept  the  situation, 

And  leave  their  foe  his  fortress  to  command ; 

They  quick  disperse,  with  shrill  congratulation, 
To  thieve  like  Satan  over  all  the  land. 

The  little  Frenchman  of  the  fields  and  wildwood, 

The  dashing,  daring,  handsome  cavalier, 
Dear  companion  of  my  dreamy  childhood, 

Of  all  the  birds  the  boldest  buccaneer, 
Nest  robber,  orchard  thief,  round  stack  and  garden, 

Busy  as  sin,  with  such  a  business  air, 
On  scare-crow's  very  hat  with  corn  grain  hard  in 

His  little  claw  he  cracks  without  a  care. 


38  The  Blue  Jay. 

When  storm  clouds  gather  in  the  Fall's  dark  session, 

And  rain  makes  music  on  my  maple  trees, 
While  other  birds  are  hushed  in  damp  depression, 

The  clear  "e-lii-ick"  floats  upon  the  bteeze. 
Snow  can  not  cow,  nor  bitter  winter  boss  'em ; 

No  want  nor  hunger  can  their  spirits  tame  ; 
In  Spring  with  blue  they  shade  the  apple  blossom, 

And  Summer  finds  them  shrieking  all  the  same. 


Garfield  Dead.  39 


Garfield  Dead. 


"Duncan  is  in  his  grave; 
After  life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well. 
Treason  has  done  his  worst ;  nor  steel,  nor  poison, 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing 
Can  touch  him  further." — Shakespeare. 

T  T  URT  unto  death  and  dead  at  last.     In  vain 
The  cry  of  anguish  from  the  people  wrung, 
That  like  a  tender  mother,  tearful  hung 

In  grief  sublime, 
Counting  by  pulse-beats  the  fatal  steps  of  time 

Above  that  bed  of  pain. 

The  land  was  dark  with  sorrow.     From  wooded  Maine 
To  where  the  wide  Pacific  chafes  the  Golden  Gate, 
From  blue  north  lakes  down  to  the  flowery  state, 
From  cities,  hamlets,  mountain,  glen,  and  plain, 

E'en  from  the  wilderness, 
Wherever  a  human  heart  has  beat,  or  human  footstep  trod, 

Went  up  to  God 
The  cry  for  succor  in  our  sore  distress. 

The  fearful  rent 


40  Garfidd  Dead. 

That  internicine  war  wrought  us  in  twain, 

His  precious  blood  is  God's  cement 
To  bind  us  in  one  brotherhood  again. 
Grief  washed  out  passion's  angry  hue, 
And  mingling  tears  for  him  come  gray  and  blue. 

In  vain 
Many  selfish  factions  seek  once  more  to  reign, 

And  stir  to  life 

Our  evil  passions  into  bloody  strife, 
That  once  our  nation's  hopes  in  common  ruin  blent. 
Land  whispered  unto  land.     Beneath  the  solemn  main, 
Through   dark,    unfathonied   caves,    the    lightning   laden 

nerve  of  life 
For  an  instant  trembled  with  our  tale  of  pain, 

And  nations  paused  amid  their  vexing  strife 
To  send  their  sorrow  back  to  us  again. 
Crowned  heads  were  bowed,  and  back-bent  toil, 
Watering  with  unrequited  sweat  the  alien  soil, 

With  uncovered  head, 
Stood  in  the  presence  of  our  mighty  dead. 
The  dead  have  lain  in  state, 
The  wise,  the  good,  the  great — 
Soldier,  statesman,  potentate — 
And  o'er  the  land,  to  grief  awake, 
Huge  bells  swinging  to  and  fro, 

Solemn  and  slow, 


Gar  field  Dead.  41 

With  iron  tongues  have  told  their  tales  of  woe, 
While  waves  of  music  beat  upon  the  air 
In  rhythmed  sweetness  all  their  wild  despair. 
It  was  our  living  that  we  laid  in  state, 

And  the  nation,  desolate, 
Through  the  heavy  watches  with  breath  abate, 
And  hearts  nigh  broken  praying  for  the  balm 
Of  health  again ;  for  on  that  quickening  breath 
And  fever  hurried  face  rode  Death 
Ah !  not  for  him  alone ;  we  saw  with  dread 
The  Great  Republic  hanging  by  a  slender  thread ; 

And  he  alone  was  calm. 
Patient  and  brave,  as  gentle  as  a  child,  ' 

He  sadly  smiled, 
While  grief  around  was  wild, 

And  took  the  chance  they  gave  him.     Tender  and  true, 
How  sweet  and  homely  were  his  words  of  cheer, 
In  answer  to  his  poor  wife's  tears  and  fear, 
"  Do  n't  cry,  sweetheart;  we  will  yet  pull  through." 
What  recks  all  glory  to  that  lonely  home, 
Where  sits  the  mother,  aged  and  alone  ? 
Of  all,  alas !  bereft,  sad  she  sits,  and  dreams 

Upon  life's  earlier  scenes ; 
Of  the  hard  struggle  and  her  noble  son, 
Who  fought  through  all  until  the  goal  was  won ; 


42  Garfield  Dead. 

And  in  th'  hour  of  triumph,  •  with  loving  grace, 
Turned  to  kiss  her  in  the  nation's  place. 

She  can  not  feel  him  dead ; 
His  manly  form  and  noble  head 

Are  ever  with  her;  he's  "her  baby"  still; 
The  dim  perceptions  cloud  the  present  o'er, 

And  save  the  pains  that  kill. 
The  broken  rainbow  yet  its  arch  retains, 
And  points  to  earth  like  life.     Our  grave  remains, 
Whatever  glory  be  for  us  in  store. 
God  help  the  brave,  true  heart 

That  lost  not  hope  till  hope  itself  was  dead — 
The  loving  wife  who  filled  an  angel's  part, 

And  smiled  to  cheer  above  a  heart  that  bled ; 
Who  crowded  down  the  blinding  tears 
And  anguished  fears, 
Hiding  her  pain, 

That  she  alone  might  nurse  her  lord  to  life  again. 
Our  hero's  widow  is  a  nation's  care, 
Her  babes  the  people's  own, 
Ah,  me !  of  what  avail  the  groan, 
The  lamentations  all  must  share  ? 
Vain  mockery  of  words.     They  deeper  grief  will  start 
To  one  who  carries  dead  like  this  upon  her  living  heart. 

Thou  art  gone, 
And  the  great  world  goes  roaring  on — 


Garfield  Dead.  43 


The  cities  hum  of  human  life,  the  roar 

Of  ocean  on  the  rocky  shore ; 

Season  follows  season,  and  o'er  the  land, 

In  sun  and  storm,  the  farmer's  horny  hand 

Tills  the  warm  earth ; 

Myriads  of  men  have  birth, 

And  myriads  are  carried  to  the  tomb; 

Birds  sing,  and  flowers  bloom, 

And  shining  rivers  roll  in  music  to  the  sea ; 

No  more,  no  more  ;  oh  !  never  more  may  we 

Turn  in  our  love  to  thee. 

We  search  in  vain, 
By  mountain  side,  or  lake,  or  plain, 
Or  thy  loved  solitude 
Of  thought  haunted  wood, 

Or  rocky  glen, 
Or  mid  the  busy  haunts  of  men ; 

No  more  may  we  our  hero  see, 
Thy  kingly  form  is  moldering  into  dust; 
Thy  spirit  is  with  God,  we  trust; 

Thy  life  has  passed  into  a  memory. 


44  An  Adieu. 


fin  fldiea. 


*T^HE  season  's  ended  and  we  part,  my  belle; 

I  try  to  smile  you  off,  yet  find  it  no  go. 
It  is  absurd,  and  yet  my  feelings  swell 
And  heart  is  heavy  as  your  Saratoga, 
That  holds  your  many  graces  and  my  pain 
And  marks  alike  my  conquest  and  your  reign. 

We  met,  't  was  at  a  "  german  " — Mrs.  Beal's, 
The  gayest  throng — ah,  well  I  it  remember, 

The  snowy  shoulders,  and  the  pointed  heels 

That  swelled  a  tide  of  dazzling  grace  and  splendor, 

And  filled  the  ancient  house  from  base  to  attic — 

Solons,  sailors,  soldiers  and  corps  diplomatic. 

I  saw  you,  fresh  and  sweet,  among  the  flirts, 
I  saw  your  gorgeous  dress  direct  from  Paris ; 

You  rose  a  Venus  from  a  sea  of  skirts, 
The  world  and  me,  alas,  in  love  to  harass, 

There  was  such  meaning  in  your  witching  smile, 

So  simply,  yet  so  knowing,  guileless  guile. 


An  Adieu.  45 

In  this  first  season,  out  upon  your  cheek 
The  color  came  and  went  in  its  sweet  way; 

You  looked  so  modest  when  I  came  to  speak, 
And  yet  so  queenly  graceful,  I  could  say 

Naught  of  the  patronizing  rot  we  hiss 

Into  the  listening  ears  of  wife  or  miss. 

We  talked  the  weather,  then  we  diagnosed 
Your  parent's  ailments — each  was  ill  I  know ; 

Mamma  had  indigestion ;  papa  toed 

Rheumatic  gout  or  something  in  his  toe ; 

I  was  so  charmed  by  stomach  and  by  toes 

That  seemed  such  music  from  your  lips  of  rose. 

Ah,  what  an  ass  is  man  when  man's  in  love — 
An  ass  he  must  be  then  his  love  to  win ; 

The  Bottom  found  Titania  all  a  dove, 

And  we  must  sigh  though  all  the  world  may  grin ; 

And  so,  my  belle,  I  lifted  you  on  high, 

Then  breathed  my  very  soul  out  in  a  sigh. 

We  make  the  thing  we  worship;  you  to  me, 
Too  pure  and  artless  were  for  sinful  earth ; 

The  terrapin  I  fed  you  seemed  to  be 

Food  for  the  gods — ah,  what  a  blighting  death 

Fell  on  the  house,  when  just  at  two 

Your  papa's  carriage  whirled  you  from  my  view. 


46  An  Adieu. 

And  so  we  "  germaned"  into  love  at  night, 
And  flirted  mildly,  dear  one,  day  by  day ; 

At  last  encouraged  by  your  eyes'  soft  light, 
At  Mrs.  Stockton's  dancing  matinee, 

I  pressed  your  little  hand,  so  soft  and  nice, 

And  told  my  burning  love  above  an  ice, 

You  blushing,  laughed,  and  laughing  looked  again 
A  shy,  sweet  glance  that  did  my  love  eclipse, 

And  ate  in  silence ;  oh  what  blissful  pain  ; 
My  soul  and  ice  seemed  melting  on  your  lips, 

Reckless  in  bliss,  entranced,  I  never  stirred, 

Though  Clarkson  Potter  heard  my  lowest  word. 

'T  was  after  dinner,  at  your  papa's  house, 
I  clasped  you  to  my  heart,  my  all  adored, 

Whispering  accepted  love,  you  little  mouse, 
While  in  a  chair  your  solemn  papa  snored. 

I  clasped  and  kissed  and  begged  you  mine  to  be, 

You  said,  "  go  speak  to  my  paternal  B." 

You  ran  away  and  I  awakened  him, 

Alas,  I  wakened,  too,  from  dreams  of  bliss; 

Paternal  bird,  he  made  my  senses  swim, 
By  a  few  words  that  fairly  seemed  to  hiss ; 

"That  girl  is  crazy,"  cried  paternal  B., 

"You  are  the  sixth  this  week  she  sent  to  me." 


An  Adieu.  47 

And  now  adieu,  my  little  witch,  adieu, 
The  season  ;s  ended,  take  my  parting  sigh. 

Our  ways  go  widening  still  the  wide  world  through, 
The  night  is  done,  morn  trembles  in  the  sky ; 

The  love  I  cherished  that  once  seemed  my  star, 

Dies  like  the  light  from  this,  my  last  cigar. 


48  A.  C.  F. 


fl.  C.  F. 


TV  /TY  eyes  are  dim  with  tears  unshed, 

My  heart  is  stirred  with  pain, 
For  memories  of  the  sainted  dead, 

Are  haunting  me  again. 
The  blue-bird's  carol,  on  the  limb 

Where  apple  blossoms  bloom, 
Has  brought  the  vision,  dear  yet  dim, 

From  out  its  heart-locked  tomb. 

Sweet  spirit  of  the  opening  spring, 

And  incense  laden  air, 
When  orchards  bloom  and  wild  birds  sing, 

And  earth  is  fresh  and  fair  ; 
No  violets  from  the  winter  wake, 

Nor  buds  burst  from  the  tree, 
Nor  wood-thrush  sings,  but  join,  to  make 

For  thee,  a  memory. 


A.  C.  F.  49 

I  see  again  thy  perfect  face, 

And  strangely  lustrous  eye, 
The  slender  form,  the  girlish  grace, 

And  ways  so  frank,  yet  shy. 
Ah  !  me,  what  years  since  then  have  fled, 

Along  their  troubled  way, 
And  left  me  here  to  mourn  the  dead, 

And  memorize  decay. 

The  spring  returns,  but  no  return 

Of  life's  young  love  and  trust, 
Fond  memory  lingers  o'er  the  urn, 

That  marks  the  mold'ring  dust; 
Alone  I  pace  the  pleasant  round, 

So  oft  in  fancy  traced, 
Where  every  rood  seems  fairy  ground, 

Her  gracious  presence  graced. 

Ah !   child  of  genius  little  known, 

But  largely  loved  on  earth, 
What  careless  wit  by  thee  was  sown, 

What  fancies  had  their  birth 
To  drop,  like  rose  leaves,  on  the  road 

That  shadowed  all  thy  days ; 
Dear,  gentle  form  to  bear  such  load, 

Along  life's  dreary  ways. 
5 


50  A.  C.  P. 

'T  is  peace  at  last,  above  thy  grave 

The  grass  is  green  again, 
The  wild  birds  sing,  the  flowers  wave 

Soft  falls  the  silvery  rain. 
Ah !  blessed  rest,  that  ends  this  coil — 

This  fevered  thing  called  life— 
The  long,  long  sleep  that,  after  toil, 

Sooths  down  our  weary  strife. 


Song.  51 


Song. 

A     HEALTH,  a  health  to  Lizzie  lass, 

And  let  the  wine  go  round, 
For  here  within  each  sparkling  glass 

Her  lovely  self  is  found; 
Her  beauty  's  like  the  bubbling  rain, 

That  dazzles  ere  'tis  past; 
Her  wit,  how  like  our  own  champagne, 
Can  floor  us  all  at  last. 

Her  smile  is  sunlight,  and  her  laugh 

Tnat  sunlight  set  to  tune ; 
Her  breath  the  honey-bee  might  quaff, 

Drowned  in  its  rich  perfume. 
Flower-born  from  out  the  sunny  south, 

Her  form  makes  stoics  sigh, 
Love  lingers  round  her  rosy  mouth, 

The  devil  in  her  eye. 


52  Song. 

This  night  1  pressed  her  little  hand, 

And  breathed  my  last  adieu ; 
To-morrow  sees  my  native  land 

Sink  in  the  waters  blue. 
Oh !  nevermore  may  eyes  of  mine 

My  little  darling  see. 
Oh!  comrades,  drown  me  deep  in  wine, 

The  world  is  dead  to  me. 


From  an  Album.  53 


an  fllbam. 


AT'OU  never  asked  poor  me  to  bring 
My  humble  tribute  to  your  shrine ; 
Perchance  you  thought  I  could  not  sing 

Where  sweeter  bards  have  sung  sublime ; 
But  feelings  make  the  song,  not  words, 
Or  else  our  bards  were  brainless  birds. 

I  've  gazed  upon  thy  gentle  face, 
When  little  noted,  long  and  oft, 

T  ve  loved  thy  form  of  witching  grace, 
And  heard  thy  voice  so  low  and  soft : 

The  charms  that  common  men  adore, 

Saw  these  and  dreamed  of  something  more 

There  is  a  meaning  in  those  eyes, 

That  few  may  fathom,  all  may  feel, 

Telling  of  thought  that  underlies 

Our  better  nature,  when  we  steal, 

Prometheus  like,  another  soul 

To  strengthen,  soften,  and  control. 


54  From  an  Album. 

And  can  it  be  that  one  so  young, 

So  fair,  so  fresh,  so  gay  and  bright, 

Has  yet  a  memory  o'er  her  hung 

That  gives  us  all  a  second  sight  ? 

What  see'st  thou,  oh  maiden  fair, 

To  bring  this  nameless  charm  and  air  ? 

The  sea-shell  whispers  of  the  sea, 

And  evening  dews  the  rose  distills, 

And,  music  lives  in  memory, 

The  sound  though  dead  the  soul  yet  thrills, 

And  each  in  each  itself  repeats, 

The  heart  alone  its  secret  keeps. 

Oh!  shallow  fool,  to  speculate, 

And  on  such  shadow  thus  refine, 

The  what  thou  see'st  is  but  fate 

That  waits  upon  the  gift  divine, 

The  genius  rare  that  swiftly  flings 

What  dull  experience  slowly  brings. 

My  rhyme  is  ended.     Oh  !  that  I 

Could  end  my  sorrows  with  my  song.- 

I  close  these  pages  with  a  sigh 

And  realize  the  pain  of  wrong ; 

For  charms  thy  face  and  form  adorn, 

Though  born  to  bliss  leave  me  forlorn. 


1  send  you  your  Letters.  55 


I  send  you  you*  Letters. 

T   SEND  you  your  letters, 

Oh !  would  I  might  send 
The  feeling  that  fetters 

My  being  and  end. 
Like  light  on  the  mountain 

These  joys  of  the  past, 
Eve's  rays  on  the  fountain, 

The  lovliest  and  last. 

Oh !  dost  thou  remember, 

The  dim  little  room, 
Where  gloomy  November 

Saw  our  joy  and  doom  ? 
We  met  but  to  sever, 

We  meet  not  again ; 
Ah !  vain  the  endeavor, 

The  anguish,  how  vain ! 


56  /  send  you  your  Letters . 

These  close-written  pages, 

These  forms  of  the  past, 
In  the  war  the  heart  wages 

With  fate  they  are  cast ; 
Yet  I  give  them  all  to  thee, 

True  heart,  once  my  own, 
Let  others  go  woo  thee, 

I  now  am  alone. 


Mac-o-chec — //.  57 


T  T  OW  many  a  vanished  hour,  and  day, 

Have  sunlight  o'er  me  shed, 
Since  last  I  saw  these  waters  play 

Along  their  pebbly  bed. 
The  bird  bent  bough  above  them  swings, 

The  waves  dance  bright  below, 
From  the  hazel  near  the  cat-bird  sings, 

As  in  long  years  ago. 

O'er  blue-edged  height,  and  sun-lit  plain, 

Soft  falls  the  purple  noon, 
On  rustling  corn,  and  waving  grain, 

On  stream  and  still  lagoon ; 
Hard  by  the  brook  the  black  bird  trills, 

The  glossy  coated  crow 
Croaks  hoarsely  on  the  breezy  hills, 

As  in  long  years  ago. 


58  Mac-o-chee — II. 

The  falcon,  like  a  censor  sung, 

Circles  the  blue  above, 
The  quail  is  calling  to  her  young,    - 

While  coos  the  mournful  dove; 
The  elder  bloom,  by  road  and  stream, 

Lies  heaped,  like  drifted  snow, 
The  meadow  birch  nods  to  its  dream, 

As  in  long  years  ago. 

The  drowsy  bee,  on  laden  wings, 

Voices  the  dreamy  day, 
The  squirrel  chatters  as  he  swings, 

While  screams  the  restless  jay ; 
The  mild  eyed  cattle,  slow  and  grave, 

Swish  in  the  shaded  pool, 
Where  hoarse  frogs  croak,  and  tall  flags  wave, 

And  clear  springs  bubble  cool. 

And  now,  as  in  that  far-off  time, 

The  village  sounds  are  dear, 
The  cry  of  children,  and  the  chime 

Of  bells,  break  on  the  ear ; 
My  playmates  then  are  bearded  men, 

The  men  wax  old  and  slow, 
Or  sleep  within  God's  silent  glen, 

Where  broods  the  long  ago. 


Mac-o-chee — //.  59 

I  may  not  sing,  my  eyes  so  dim, 

I  may  not  sing  the  change 
That  wrought  upon  my  soul  within, 

Its  sadness,  still  and  strange; 
Nor  here  by  fragile  flower  and  stream, 

Repeat  the  well  worn  lay, 
How  we  the  fleeting  shadows  seem, 

Immortal  substance  they. 

But  ah !  these  trees,  and  birds,  and  skies, 

And  scented  flower's  bloom, 
Are  all  to  me  as  one  who  lies 

Hid  in  a  hollow  tomb ; 
Where  murmurs  of  a  busy  world, 

Sift  through  the  creviced  stone, 
And  like  a  leaf  but  half  unfurled, 

Leaves  all  the  tale  unknown. 

Round  every  life  an  Eden  lies, 

In  golden  glow  of  youth, 
When  romance  tints  with  tender  dyes, 

The  solemn  page  of  truth, 
When  newer  being  thrills  the  heart, 

To  young  love's  magic  hand, 
And,  as  awake  from  dreams,  we  start 

To  gaze  on  fairy  land. 


60  Mac-o-chee — //. 

What  deeper  blue  the  skies  assume, 

What  tints  the  earth  takes  on, 
What  roseate  hues  our  paths  illume, 

A  moment,  then  't  is  gone. 
And  back  to  earth  we  turn  again ; 

Back  to  its  weary  strife, 
Yet,  through  all  sorrow,  sin,  and  pain, 

One  vision  sweetens  life. 


The  Little  Shoe.  6j 


The  Little  Shoe. 


E  sweetest  little  girl  that  ever  lived 
Is  chatting  gayly  by  my  easy  chair, 
Adown  her  shapely  head  like  sunlight  sieved 

Through  evening  shadows  falls  her  golden  hair  , 
Her  fairy  form  is  leaning  on  my  knee, 

Her  earnest  eyes  are  gazing  up  to  mine, 
With  what  a  faith  she  all  believes  in  me, 

That  child-like  faith  our  Savior  called  divine. 


The  pain  her  presence  brings  she  can  not  dream, 

Reviving  sorrow  long  since  worn  dry, 
From  out  a  channel  of  a  storm  born  stream, 

That  tore  my  aching  heart  in  years  gone  by  ; 
Her  silvery  voice  recalls  the  voice  of  one, 

Long  passed  through  death,  unto  the  dread  unknown 
When  my  ewe-lamb,  my  one,  with  life  was  done, 

And,  left  me  childless,  homeless  and  alone. 


62  The  Little  Shoe. 

In  yonder  drawer  there  lies  a  little  shoe, 

Tear  stained  and  faded,  in  its  wraps  apart, 
All  scuffed  out  and  torn  to  tawny  hue — 

It  patters  yet  upon  my  aching  heart. 
Frail  relic  thus  to  hold  so  grave  a  trust, 

And  bridge  with  grief  the  many  weary  years 
The  little  form  's  long  molded  into  dust, 

I  see  it  only  through  my  blinding  tears. 

Along  these  halls   there  sound   no  pattering  feet, 

No  eager  face  peers  through  the  door  ajar, 
No  joyous  shout  my  comings  ring  to  greet, 

No  busy  fingers  my  sad  labors  mar. 
One  little  death  has  made  my  house  a  tomb, 

One  cruel  stroke  has  forced  my  life  apart 
From  all  its  healthful  growth,  and  it  was  doomed 

To  fruitage  of  a  mutilated  heart. 

We  pity  the  deformed,  the  crippled  find 

Of  human  charity  a  helpful  store, 
But    take  no  thought  of  hurts  that  blind 

And  half  destroy  our  being  at  its  core. 
Back  to  thy  hiding-place,  dear  little  shoe, 

Back  with  thy  memories  of  saddened  years ; 
You  give  to  dreary  life  a  softer  hue, 

And,  after  all,  a  blessing  in  these  tears. 


Serenade.  63 


Serenade. 


\  1  7HILE  bright  stars  are  keeping, 
*  Their  watch  in  the  sky, 

And  song-birds  are  sleeping 

To  Summer's  low  sigh, 
I  leave  the  lone  pillow 

My  weary  head  prest, 
And  steal  to  the  lattice 

Of  her  I  love  best. 

Breathe  low,  gentle  music, 

Steal  into  her  dream 
Like  the  sweet  voice  of  flowers 

That  whispers  the  stream  ; 
I  would  not  recall  her 

From  dreamland  of  bliss, 
Even  in  music, 

To  troubles  of  this. 


64  Serenade. 


As  white  as  the  snow-flake, 

As  warm  as  the  sun, 
As  soft  as  the  moss  rose 

The  South  breathes  upon ; 
Sleep  holds  her  enchanted 

In  dreamy  repose, 
As  odors  of  evening 

In  clasp  of  the  rose. 

Oh,  long  night  of  sorrow, 

Of  heartache  and  sighs, 
Without  the  bright  morrow 

That  sleeps  in  her  eyes ! 
What  gulf  lies  between  us, 

From  goodness  to  sin, 
From  the  passion  without 

To  the  heaven  within  ! 


Monody.  65 


Ittonody. 


I  weep,  for  Adonis — he  is  dead  !—  Shelley. 

POLAND  is  dead  !     We  weep  for  Poland, 

High  old  bishop  of  the  mountains  green  \ 
Brass-buttoned,  swallowed-tailed,  in  no  land 
Will  the  venerable  pump,  lofty  and  serene, 
Any  more  be  seen. 
It  seemeth  now  a  dream 
That  erst  he  stood  among  the  solons  solemn, 
Gray-haired,  erect,  a  very  column 
Of  pious  sweetness,  playing  with  his  fob 

Where  hung  the  ancient  seal, 
While  spreading  softly  o'er  each  dirty  job 
The  unctious  cover  of  his  righteous  zeal. 

The  great  investigator  is  at  rest, 

In  the  final  home  by  Christian  statesmen  blest, 
Where  ghostly  shadows  stalk  the  silent  shore, 
Where  smiling  Schuyler  smiles  no  more, 


66  Monody. 

And  Pomeroy,  Harlan,  Hooper  and  the  rest 
Have  journeyed  o'er. 

Last  of  the  Christain  statesmen,  over  thee 

We  drop  our  several  tears. 
The  lobby's  hung  ir  black,  and  lo  !  we  see 
The  weeping  carpet-baggers  pale  with  fears, 
And  huge  contractors  and  petticoated  dears, 
Forming  the  long  procession,  and  loud  they  cry 
Along  the  vaulted  sky  : 

"Our  mighty  Poland's  dead; 
Our  Bishop  's  dead ; 
Old  Subsidy  is  dead; 
The  deadest  sort  of  dead; 
Let  tears  be  shed. 
For  no  perq's  can  raise  him  from  his  lowly  bed. 

We  are  forlorn; 
We  see  the  crib  and  can  not  get  the  corn." 

The  White  House  seems  a  whited  sepulcher — 

There  is  no  stir 

Along  its  lofty  rooms,  but  sounds 
Of  wailing  reach  us  from  camp-meeting  grounds, 
When  the  dread  Caesar  prays.  • 
He  seeks  at  last  to  leave  the  crooked  ways, 


Monody.  67 

Startled  by  Poland's  fate  and  shortened  days; 
Forsaking  all  fast  things,  he  fasts  always. 

Hearken  now  to  Dana — Dana  of  the  Sun- 
The  sun  that  shines  for  all ; 
He  singeth  a  madrigal ; 
For  that  his  enemy  is  dead  and  done, 
Who,  with  ye  Harrington 
And  other  villians,  to  the  Capital 

Him  would  have  dragged 
In  grievous  irons  bound, 
Likewise  well  gagged. 

Now  hearken  to  the  joyful  sound : 
Great  Dana  lately  in  a  funk, 
Drinketh  much  lager  and  forthwith  getteth  drunk. 

Hear  the  sainted  Mormons    loud  rejoice 

In  tones  polygamous, 
Lifting  a  solemn  voice 

To  thank  the  Lord  for  thus 
Destroying  the  great  Goliah  of  the  House, 

Who  sought  to  rob  them  of  their  many  wives, 

Likewise  their  lands  and  mines  and  teeming  hives, 
That  carpet-baggers  might  carouse 

On  gains  ill-gotten — the  thieving  crew — 
That  God  will  yet  gridiron  for  his  favored  nation. 
To  this  old  Brigham  had  a  special  revelation, 


68  Monody. 

For  he  foretold  our  Poland  dead, 

And  heard  the  solemn  tolling  of  a  bell 
That  said  old  Poland's  gone  to  hell, 

And  Satan's  breaking  bark  upon  his  legislative  head. 

Now  hear  the  fearful  chimes. 

Newman's  iron  rhymes, 

How  they  ring  and  roar  and  swell, 

Ding  dong  bell, 

Making  each  listener  hold  his  aching  head, 
Wishing  old  Poland  damned  as  well  as  dead. 

No  more,  no  more,  oh !  never  more  may  we 
Count  up  our  little  perq's,  nor  ever  see 

The  sweet  subsidy 

Blessed  by  Poland  for  poor  humanity. 
A  pall  hangs  over  Willard's,  the  Ebbitt's  done, 
And  gloom  has  settled  on  the  Arlington ; 
In  Welcker's  fascinating  rooms  the  lights  burn  blue, 
Crape  hangs  on  knobs  south  of  the  avenue ; 
From  sample-rooms  the  joyous  laugh  has  fled, 
Hertzog  a  mammoth  tear  has  shed, 

For  Poland  dead. 


Song.  69 


Song. 


A  S  rivulets  to  the  river  run, 

The  rivers  to  the  sea, 
'Neath  starry  skies,  or  cloudless  sun, 

To  where  their  rest  may  be, 
My  heart's  deep  love,  oh,  dearest  one, 
Forever  flows  to  thee. 

Nor  birds,  nor  flowers,  nor  bending  trees 
The  restless  waves  may  stay, 

Nor  shining  stars  nor  wooing  breeze 
Win  e'en  a  brief  delay ; 

They  murmur  of  the  distant  seas, 
And  murmuring  flow  alway. 

I  want  the  words  to  sing,  my  love, 

Of  love's  sweet  ecstasy, 
Resistless  as  the  rivers,  love, 

And  boundless  as  the  sea, 
That  cares  not  for  the  heaven  above 

If  heaven  holds  not  thee. 


70  After  the  Ball 


flfte*  the  Ball. 


T   CARE  not  for  these  stars  of  earth, 

Though  ever  lovely  things, 
Unless,  dear  girl,  they  gather  worth 

From  what  wild  fancy  brings. 
'Tis  thus,  oh,  Lucy!  with  the  wreath 

That  late  you  gave  to  me, 
For  ever  since  it  seems  to  breathe 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 

I  look  on  it  and  see  again, 

Beneath  the  chandelier, 
Where  fell  in  waves  the  witching  strain 

Of  music  on  the  ear, 
Thy  lovely  form  that  seemed  to  rise 

As  from  a  foamy  sea, 
The  goddess  of  my  heart  held  eyes 

Born  of  the  melody. 


After  the  Ball.  71 

I  joined  you  in  the  whirling  dance, 

I  clasped  your  fairy  form ; 
I  drank  in  madness  from  the  glance 

That  lost  its  look  of  scorn. 
I  had  one  glimpse  for  life  to  sigh 

From  out  those  lustrous  eyes, 
As  one  who  lingers  longing  by 

The  gates  of  Paradise. 

'Twas  seen — 'twas  gone;  I  stood  alone 

Amid  the  merry  throng; 
The  lightning's  flash  had  o'er  me  shone, 

Then  darkness  swept  along, 
The  music  lost  its  tone  or  mirth, 

And  seemed  a  funeral  strain, 
That  marched  me  back  to  weary  earth, 

To  weary  self  again. 

And  once  again  we  met — 'twas  brief; 

My  heart  with  envy  stirs, 
To  dream  upon  thy  form  beneath 

The  cloak  of  silks  and  furs. 
I  said,  Good  night ;  your  papa  said, 

"The  carriage  waits,  my  dear," 
When  softly  from  your  lovely  head 

This  wreath  you  dropped  me  near. 


72  After  the  Ball. 

The  night  is  passing,  and  its  sheen 

Of  stars  melt  in  the  morn ; 
I  sit  alone  to  drink  and  dream 

So  weary  and  forlorn  ; 
For  now  we  go  our  various  ways — 

While  mine  is  cold  and  drear, 
For  you,  as  papa  fondly  says, 

The  carriage  waits,  my  dear. 


In  Memoriam. — B.  M.  P.  73 


In  Iflemoriam — B.  |H.  P. 


O  O  brave  and  true  through  all  the  troubled  past, 
Guiding  his  life  on  honor's  highest  plane, 
Strong  in  his  guard  'gainst  selfish  greed  of  gain ; 

So  sad  and  tragic  to  break  down  at  last ! 

He  stood  so  calm  'mid  sulphurous  smoke  of  death, 
Worked  on  in  patience  'neath  privation's  sway, 

Found  wealth  in  love,  with  ne'er  a  hasty  breath 
To  mar  with  strife  life's  saddest,  darkest  day; 

We  thought  him  strong,  nor  took  account  of  pain, 
That  wrecked  his  trusting  nature  as  it  fell; 

The  silver  cord  was  broken  in  the  strain, 

The  golden  pitcher  shattered  at  the  well. 

Poor  Ben !  grief  builds  for  thee  a  purer  fame, 

So  sleep  in  peace  beneath  thy  honored  name. 


74  Melindtfs  Trail 


Belinda's  Trail. 


"  Whereby  hangs  a  tale,  sir  ?     Marry,  sir." 

Othello. 
"  Mistress,  you  must  tell  us  another  tale." 

Twelfth  Night. 

OHE  walks  upon  the  avenue, 
This  female  friend  of  mine, 

With  figure  that  is  exquisite, 
And  face  that  is  divine, 

And  dresses  in  the  latest  style, 
That  develops  much  behind. 

The  hair  upon  her  philo 

Is  heaped  up  like  a  stack, 

The  pannier  on  her  n.  w.  side 
Looks  like  a  camel's  back ; 

Her  trail  upon  the  dirty  street 
A  comet  in  its  track. 


Melinda' s   Trail  75 

This  trail  is  made  of  satin 

Or  silk,  as  may  be  seen, 
And  cost  her  verdant  father 

No  end  of  backs  called  green, 
And  for  the  sweeping  of  the  street 

Is  a  rather  high  machine. 

The  fashion  comes  from  Europe, 

Where  't  is  called  a  carriage  dress ; 

But  Melinda  has  no  carriage 
Her  little  soul  to  bless, 

So  the  filthy  bricks  and  asphalt 
Get  a  satiny  caress. 

Now  as  Melinda  sweeps  along 

The  sunny  avenue 
She  looks  so  pure  and  innocent 

In  every  line  and  hue, 
She  seems  an  angel  in  disguise 

Dropped  from  the  very  blue. 

But  when  this  lovely  creature  seeks 

At  home  her  night's  repose, 
And  dofPs  her  carriage  garment,  Lord 

What  facts  she  can  disclose 
In  the  horrible  condition 

Of  her  hidden  underclothes. 


76  Melinda' s  Trail. 

Her  balbriggins,  that 's  Irish  now 
For  a  better  style  of  hose, 

Have  dust  and  dirt  and  oder  too, 
Enough  to  turn  one's  nose, 

While  her  petticoats,  etc., 

A  board  of  health  would  pose. 

There's  miasma  in  Melinda, 

This  creature  soft  and  frail ; 

She  gets  it  on  the  avenue 
And  holds  it  at  retail ; 

But  what  a  tale  she  can  unfold 
In  unfolding  of  her  trail. 

'Tis  said  on  one  occasion  she 
Turned  out  many  a  quid, 

Some  very  dirty  paper  and 
An  old  tobacco  lid, 

A  defunct  frog  and  something  worse 
That  in  the  folds  were  hid. 

Now  if  you  meet  Melinda  sweet 
In  all  her  glittering  show, 

And  feel  a  soft  emotion  where 

The  heart  throbs  come  and  go, 

The  cure  is  to  remember  well 
Her  fearful  fix  below. 


Ariel.  7  7 


Mel. 


T   LONGED  to  see  thee,  sweet  unseen, 
I  longed  to  hear  thee,  sweet  unheard, 

Before  the  ideal  of  my  dream, 

My  heart  within  was  strangely  stirred; 

As  if  thy  soul,  unseen,  all  seeing, 

Had  touched  the  inner  cord  of  being. 

I  stood  as  on  that  magic  isle, 

Where  clouds  hung  heavy  in  the  sky, 
And  rocks  and  trees  were  still  the  while, 

The  troubled  waters  tumbled  by, 
Wrathful  at  winds  no  longer  near, 
So  fair  and  grand,  and  yet  so  drear. 

'T  was  then  thy  music  seemed  to  sweep 
Along  the  pure  and  storm-seived  air — 

' '  Thy  hopes  are  buried  in  the  deep, 
Full  fathom  five ;  in  death  so  fair, 

They  sleep,  they  sleep,  while  o'er  them  leap 

The  surging  waves  that  requiem  keep." 


78  Ariel. 

The  rocks  looked  on  the  cloudy  sky, 
The  sky  looked  on  the  rolling  sea, 

O'er  sands  and  waves  the  weary  eye 
No  sign  of  human  life  could  see; 

And  after  pause  the  sweet  refrain 

Stole  like  a  dirge  upon  the  brain. 

Oh !  world  of  waters  wide  and  deep, 

Oh !  lovely  isle  that  mocked  my  dole, 

Oh  !  music  wild  and  weird  and  sweet, 
That  brought  such  solace  to  my  soul. 

My  hopes  were  buried ;  would  they  change 

Swift  into  something  rich  and  strange  ? 

The  fairest  barks  go  down  at  sea, 

The  saddest  hearts  mourn  on  the  shore, 

A  dirge  is  all  our  melody, 

No  more,  no  more,  oh !  never  more  ! 

Then  mock  us  not  with  hope  of  change 

Into  that  something  sweet  and  strange. 

They  all  have  melted  into  air, 

The  sea  and  isle  and  song  have  fled, 

I  sit  with  my  companion,  Care, 

With  heavy  heart  and  weary  head ; 

And  yet  I  thank  thee  for  the  strain 

That  woke  to  life  the  dream  again. 


JVew  Words  to  a  Choice  Old  Song.  79 


flem  Words  to  a  Choice  Old  Song. 


T   KNEW  a  man  once  built  his  house 

Upon  an  icy  plain, 
And  thought,  poor  man,  his  house  would  stand, 

Throughout  the  summer's  rain. 

That  man  he  was  a  wondrous  fool ; 

A  greater  fool  is  he 
Who  puts  his  trust  in  woman's  love 

And  lauds  her  constancy. 

I  knew  a  man  once  take  his  hound 

His  better  friend  to  be, 
And  in  his  ears  his  hopes  and  fears 

He  poured  incessantly. 

That  man  he  was  a  wondrous  fool ; 

A  greater  fool  is  he 
Who  feels  a  lack  for  women's  clack ; 

And  lauds  their  brilliancy. 


8o  New  Words  to  a  Choice  Old  Song. 

Then  let  us  clink  and  drain  our  drink 

To  women,  wit  and  wine, 
Things  very  good  when  understood, 

But  not  at  all  divine. 

For  he  who  drinks  till  he  gets  drunk 
Has  little  wit,  I  ween, 

But  less  has  he  whom  love  makes  see 
His  wench  a  very  queen. 


One  More  Unfortunate.  81 


One  Jttore  Unfortunate. 

!  tell  me,  am  I  dying? 
Can  this  indeed  be  death, 
That  weighs  so  heavy  on  my  heart 

And  clutches  at  my  breath  ? 
Oh !  tell  me,  am  I  dying  ? 

Before  I  grow  too  weak 
There  are  within  my  weary  soul 

Some  words  I  fain  would  speak. 

My  name  is  not  Belle  Henry — 

Ah  !  no,  a  dearer  name 
Was  mine  of  early  girlhood, 

Before  I  brought  it  shame. 
There  is  a  lowly  cottage, 

Where  peaceful  waters  flow, 
Where  wild  birds  by  the  window  sing, 

And  gentle  flowers  blow ; 
I  can  not  say  it  was  my  home, 

It  seems  so  long  ago. 


82  One  More  Unfortunate. 

My  mother,  dearest  mother, 

I  see  her  strangely  now, 
Her  sad,  sad  eyes  and  bending  form, 

And  care  upon  her  brow. 
I  see  my  poor  old  father, 

Who  had  no  word  of  blame, 
Though  upon  his  snow-white  head 

I  brought  this  burning  shame. 

I  am  dying,  father,  dying 

In  this  dreary  place  alone ! 
No  hand  to  smooth  my  pillow, 

No  heart  ache  for  my  moan ! 
Oh !  well  I  now  remember 

The  snowy  little  bed, 
Where  mother  came  to  bless  me 

In  prayers  so  softly  said; 
I  see  the  apple  blossoms, 

I  hear  the  partridge  call 
In  the  dewy  light  of  morning, 

Peace  brooding  over  all. 

I  was  fifteen,  only  fifteen, 

When  the  cruel  tempter  came ; 

I  knew  but  how  to  love  him, 
And  he  to  bring  me  shame. 


One  More  Unfortunate.  83 

How  my  playmates  all  forsook  me 

In  the  cold  world's  look  of  scorn, 

When  in  shameful  sense  of  horror 
My  little  babe  was  born. 

Ah  !  brief  the  joy  he  brought  me, 

For  joy  it  was  to  me 
To  feel  one  cling  so  closely 

When  all  so  hard  could  be. 
But  he  faded  from  my  clasping, 

I  laid  him  down  to  rest, 
His  little  hands  soft  folded 

Upon  his  little  breast ; 
Shall  I  nevermore  behold  him, 

Ne'er  clasp  his  form  again, 
After  all  these  years  of  anguish, 

And  all  this  life  of  pain  ? 

I  fled  one  dreary  midnight; 

Indeed  I  could  not  bear 
My  father's  silent  sorrow, 

My  mother's  look  of  care ; 
And  lower  still  and  lower 

Passed  on  my  weary  feet, 
Until  I  stood  an  outcast 

Upon  the  darkling  street. 


84  One  More  Unfortunate. 

Oh !  sickness,  cold,  and  hunger, 
Oh !  degradation's  ban ! 

Ye  are  soft  and  kinder-hearted 
Than  heart  of  cruel  man. 

My  father  oft  has  read  us, 

While  I  knelt  beside  his  knee, 

Of  the  woman  and  the  Savior- 
No  Savior  came  to  me ; 

But  scorn  and  bitter  curses, 

And  wrongs  I  may  not  tell, 

From  they  whose  blighting  shadows 
Upon  my  pathway  fell. 

Oh !  father,  dearest  father, 

Oh !  mother,  far  away, 
You  mourn  your  long-lost  outcast — 

I  am  twenty-one  to-day — 
Oh  !  would  that  I  were  with  you ! 

To  have  you  near  me  now 
Would  take  this  pain  from  out  my  heart, 

This  anguish  from  my  brow; 
You  would  not  spurn  your  darling, 

But  clasp  the  wasted  form 
Of  the  poor,  weak,  erring  creature 

The  world  can  only  scorn. 


One  More  Unfortunate.  85 

My  prayer  is  not  unanswered, 

I  feel  a  spirit  sweet 
Steal  o'er  my  soul,  and  ease  my  heart — 

I  pray  you  let  me  sleep. 


86  A  Pathetic  Ballad  of  Chicago. 


fl  Pathetic  Ballad  of  Chicago. 


With  the  accent  heavy  on  the  "go." 

T  SING  a  breach  of  promise 
That  happened  long  ago, 

Where  the  waters  of  the  river 
Like  roses  seem  to  flow, 

Where  Amanda  Craig  was  trifled  with, 
In  the  town  of  Chicago. 

There  was  an  ancient  duffer 
As  rich  as  rich  could  be, 

Who  loved  the  fair  Amanda, 
"  The  inexpressive  she," 

And  he  "loved  her  as  his  Jesus," 
And  he  spelled  it  with  a  "  G." 


A  Pathetic  Ballad  of  Chicago.  87 

Amanda  was  no  chicken, 

Though  tender  as  a  doe ; 
She  lived  in  Cincinnati, 

Where  the  market  is  but  slow ; 
So  she  listened  to  this  duffer 

Of  the  wicked  Chicago. 

His  love  it  was  so  burning, 

It  cooked  him  on  the  raw  j 
And  so  to  cool  his  passion 

He  went  to  Saginaw, 
And  wrote  her  sundry  letters, 

Ne'er  dreaming  of  the  law. 

The  tender  maid,  Amanda, 

Had  taught  in  common  school ; 

So  kept  these  loving  letters 
A-written  by  this  fool 

Who  sought  in  breezy  Saginaw 
His  burning  love  to  cool. 

Now,  this  illiterate  villain 

Remained  in  Saginaw, 
Until  his  burning  passion 

Was  cool  as  any  slaw ; 
And  then  he  went  to  buying  lots 

And  Amanda  went  to  law. 


88  A  Pathetic  Ballad  of  Chicago. 

Oh !  blessed  dispensation, 
The  wicked  one  to  tease, 

That  cures  up  our  affection 

And  brings  the  heart  its  ease ; 

Some  find  it  sweet  in  heaven, 
Some  in  the  Common  Pleas. 

What  did  this  cunning  cheese-wax 
But  shave  his  ancient  pate ; 

Put  on  old  clothes  and  bend  his  form, 
Take  out  the  dentist  plate, 

And  wrinkle  up  his  countenance, 
Great  pity  to  create  ? 

But  the  jury  were  all  fathers, 

And  some  were  husbands,  too ; 

And  the  tricks  of  this  deceiver 

They  saw  right  through  and  through ; 

So  they  found  a  hundred  thousand 
To  make  the  cuss  look  blue. 

So  all  ye  ancient  lovers, 

A-roving  to  and  fro, 
Now  take  from  me  a  warning — 

Do  n't  let  your  passion  flow, 
Or,  if  you  breach  a  promise, 

Steer  clear  of  Chicago. 


Ye  Granger  is  Poking  Round.  89 


Ye  Grange*  is  Poking  Hound. 


AIR:  "  Tlie  little  pigs  lay  with  their  tails  curled  up." 

*T^HE  little  pigs  lay  with  their  tails  curled  tight, 

Tight,   tight,  tight ; 

The  little  pigs  lay  with  their  tails  curled  tight, 
A-snoring  so  sweet  in  the  cloudy  night, 
When  they  all  got  up  in  terrible  fright, 

Plight,  fright,  plight, 
For  ye  Granger  was  looking*  round. 

These  little  pigs  numbered  just  fifty-two, 

Two,  two,   two ; 

These  little  pigs  numbered  just  fifty-two ; 
They  had  very  long  tails,  but  ears  were  few, 
For  their  ears  were  gone  to  make  a  stew, 

Stew,  stew,  stew, 
As  ye  Granger  went  poking  round. 


po  Ye  Granger  is  Poking  Round. 

There  were  Kelley  and  Dawes  and  fifty  more, 

More,  more,' more; 

There  were  Kelley  and  Dawes  and  fifty  more, 
That  lay  very  low  and  let  on  to  snore 
In  innocent  sleep,  while  the  terrible  bore, 

Bore,  bore,  bore, 
Of  ye  Granger  went  searching  round. 

"  My  pigs  were  marked  by  Uncle  Sam," 
Quoth  ye  Granger  with  a  terrible  damn ; 
' '  I  want  them  all  for  shoulder  and  ham, 

Ham,  ham,  ham," 
Quoth  ye  Granger  while  poking  round. 

' '  Their  bowels  are  good  for  sausage,  too, 

Too,  too,  too ; 

Their  bowels  are  good  for  sausage,  too ; 
Their  little  feet  make  an  excellent  stew. 
We  will  have  sides  and  heads  a  few, 

Few,  few,  few," 
Quoth  ye  Granger  a-poking  round. 

"  We  are  no  pigs,"  squealed  Kelley  and  Dawes, 
Dawes,  Dawes,  Dawes, 

"  We  are  no  pigs,"  squealed  Kelley  and  Dawes; 

"We  are  good  men  who  make  good  laws, 

And  fight  the  fight  of  the  negro  cause, 
Cause,  cause,  cause, 

But  ye  Granger  went  poking  round. 


Ye  Granger  is  Poking  Round.  9 1 

The  moral  I  give  of  this  sweet  little  song, 

.    Song,  song,  song, 

For  all  the  pigs  to  the  slaughter  have  gone ; 
To  be  safe  in  the  House  as  ye  go  it  strong ; 
Let  your  tails  be  short  and  your  ears  be  long, 

Long,  long,  long, 
For  ye  Granger  is  poking  round. 


92  Louise  Kir  by  Piatt. 


Louise 


INSCRIPTION    ON    HER    TOMB. 

"  I  "O  thy  dear  memory,  darling,  and  my  own, 
I  build  in  grief  this  monumental  stone ; 
All  that  it  tells  of  life  in  death  is  thine, 
All  that  it  means  of  death  in  life  is  mine; 
For  the  dread  King,  who  tore  our  lives  apart, 
Gave  me  the  dead,  to  you  the  living  part ; 
You,  dying,  live  to  find  a  life  divine, 
I,  living,  die  till  death  hath  made  me  thine. 


To  a  Star.  93 


To  a  Star. 


A  MID  the  somber  pines  the  winds  are  sighing, 

While  nature  drops  her  livery  of  green ; 
About  my  home  the  maple  leaves  are  dying, 
Ah  me !  what  spaces  lie  our  lives  between. 

Through  all  the  hazy  autumn  hours  I  wander, 
Dreaming  upon  the  mysteries  of  life ; 

With  ear  against  the  world's  great  heart  you  ponder 
In  pain  upon  its  glory  and  its  strife. 

And  when  night  comes,  with  clear  unequaled  splendor, 
I  see  the  star-king  from  Eastern  shadows  start ; 

Far  in  the  West  shines  one  less  bright,  more  tender — 
With  even  pace  they  keep  their  ways  apart. 

One  sinks,  the  other  rises,  and  there  lies  on 
A  separate  fate  ;  for  one,  alas !  forlorn, 

Sinks  slowly  'neath  the  murky,  low  horizon, 
While  melts  the  other  softly  into  morn. 


94  ^  Memory. 


Narragansett's  storm-beat  sand 
We  walked  with  slow,  reluctant  feet ; 
I  held  enclasped  her  slender  hand, 

With  loved  possession,  deep  and  sweet. 
Out  on  the  wave  the  wild  foam  swung, 
The  circling  sea-gulls  upward  sprung ; 
While  o'er  the  level  sand  the  sea 
Came  rolling  soft  and  dreamily. 

The  sunset's  glow  was  on  her  cheek, 

Where  love  and  heaven  seemed  to  blend ; 
So  full  our  hearts  we  could  not  speak, 

As  summer's  glories  found  an  end. 
What  tender  lights  seived  through  the  mist, 
As  waves  and  sunlight  sparkling  kissed, 
While  o'er  the  sea,  to  setting  sun, 
Swung  thunder  of  the  evening  gun ! 


A  Memory.  95 

Ah  !  gentle  form,  what  gift  was  thine 

To  make  the  sky  a  deeper  blue, 
To  make  the  barren  sands  divine, 

And  heaving  sea  a  rosier  hue  ? 
'T  was  morn  of  life,  and  love's  sweet  glance 
Gave  dreary  years  their  one  romance, 
When  yielding  form  and  tender  eyes, 
Return  to  earth  its  paradise. 

On  Narragansett's  dreary  sand, 

Now  bent  and  old,  alone  I  stray, 
Nor  see  the  lights,  nor  waves,  nor  land, 

But  one  lone  grave  so  far  away. 
The  storm-tossed  foam  and  gulls  distraught — - 
Return  like  dreams,  with  haunted  thought — 
"No  more,  no  more,  oh!  never  more!  " 
Moan  the  dark  waves  along  the  shore. 


96  Death  of  Custer. 


Death  of  Caste*. 


13  E  hearty,  my  braves,  for  the  hour  draws  nigh, 

When,  in  white  man's  blood,  we  wet  our  knives ; 
The  light  shall  not  dawn  in  the  eastern  sky 

Ere  we  torture  the  men  and  scalp  their  wives. 
There's  plunder  on  hand  and  wampum  in  store; 

We  're  deadly  as  lightning,  and  still  as  the  night ; 
Your  chief  is  here,  and  leads  you  once  more : 

The  hero  am  I  of  a  hundred  fights. 

The  long  haired  chief,  like  a  hunting  hound, 

Followed  our  trail  with  his  eagle  eye ; 
The  Indian  sought  and  the  Indian  found : 

He  came  to  kill,  and  remained  to  die. 
As  a  roaring  wind  he  lead  on  his  braves ; 

As  snakes  so  still  we  awaited  here ; 
They  sought  our  scalps,  they  found  their  graves, 

They  fought  without  hope,  they  fell  without  fear, 


Death  of  Custer.  97 

In  a  circle  of  fire  we  hemmed  them  'round, 

His  braves  fell  in  heaps,  but  never  he  quailed ; 
Firm  as  a  rock  he  held  to  his  ground, 

Though  the  succor  he  sought  in  terror  failed ; 
They  left  him  to  die,  as  he  lived,  alone, 

Proud,  fierce,  and  fleet,  as  a  hawk  on  high. 
His  life  was  his  country's,  his  deeds  all  his  own, 

He  knew  how  to  live,  as  he  knew  how  to  die. 


98  The  Cowboy, 


The  Comboy. 


TV /TY  name  it  is  Buck  Stockton, 

It  is  a  sound  to  fear ; 
The  Ingun  and  the  Greaser  start, 

That  dreaded  name  to  hear ; 
For  my  finger 's  on  my  trigger, 

And  my  hand  is  on  my  knife, 
And  when  Buck  Stockton 's  challenged, 

He  answers  with  a  life. 

I  came  from  old  Kantucky, 

Was  born  one  blessed  night 
Next  a  bar-room  when  a  fight  went  on; 

So  I  was  born  to  fight. 
The  plains  are  my  possessions, 

My  saddle  is  my  home, 
And  it 's  death  to  any  human 

Who  says  that  I  can't  roam. 


The  Cowboy.  99 

My  hoss  is  young  Red  Thomas — 

A  blue  grass  hoss  is  he ; 
His  sire  won  the  Derby, 

And  he  can  win  for  me. 
He  makes  a  mile  a  minit, 

And  he  makes  it  every  day; 
A  flash,  a  shot,  a  death  yell, 

And  we  are  far  away. 

The  border's  full  of  hell-hounds, 

There  's  death  at  every  turn; 
Who 's  right,  who 's  wrong,  who  lives,  who  dies, 

Is  never  my  concern. 
My  hoss  and  my  revolver 

Make  my  commission  still, 
To  keep  the  peace  for  Stockton, 

To  keep  the  peace  or  kill. 


zoo  King  Midas 's  Touch. 


King  jVIidas's  Toaeh. 


ING  Midas  was  a  wondrous  king, 

His  like  we'll  ne'er  behold; 
For  what  his  kingship  deigned  to  touch 

At  once  was  turned  to  gold. 
But  ah !  the  days  are  changed,  I  trow, 

Since  those  of  that  old  king ; 
For  touch  a  man  with  gold  and  now 

He  '11  turn  to  any  thing. 

The  magi  of  the  East,  they  say, 

Possessed  a  magic  ring, 
That  gave,  when  touched,  all  human  sway, 

And  every  pleasant  thing. 
The  lobby  at  the  Capital 

Has  a  better  thing  in  store : 
Can  see  the  magi's  magic  ring 

And  go  them  forty  more. 


King  Midas' s  Touch.,    ,'»',  ; . 

There 's  not  a  statesman  in  the  land, 

Whate'er  may  be  his  swing, 
But  knuckles  to  the  dark  command, 

He 's  slave  unto  the  ring. 
He  looks  the  eagle,  soaring  grand, 

But,  like  a  common  kite, 
He 's  made  of  old  newspapers,  and 

A  string  controls  his  flight. 


The  Kickers. 


The 


rT^HERE  was  an  ancient  millionaire, 

Who  was  both  old  and  green, 
Who  loved  a  girl,  with  golden  hair, 

A  girl  of  sweet  sixteen ; 
When  wed,  alas!  the  war  began, 

That  drove  the  groom  to  liquor, 
For  the  little  wife  had  lovers,  and 

This  good  man  died  a  kicker. 

There  was  a  mighty  Senatair, 

A  boss  both  strong  and  high, 
Who  wore  a  lock  of  curly  hair, 

That  took  the  pop'lar  eye ; 
One  day  he  did  resign  in  spleen, 

And  then  began  to  bicker, 
But  now  among  the  herd  he 's  seen, 

A  most  uncommon  kicker. 


The  Kickers.  103 

We  know  a  great  divine,  who,  dear 

To  the  commercial  mind, 
Drew  crowds  immense,  each  day,  to  hear 

His  theologic  find ; 
Alas !  he  once  stepped  down  and  out 

With  Satan  for  a  dicker, 
Since  then  he  sadly  goes  about, 

A  discontented  kicker. 

So  life  has  many  a  crown  and  cross 

Full  many  a  joy  and  sorrow, 
And  if  to-day  you  feel  a  loss, 

You  '11  find  success  to-morrow ; 
But  whether  it  be  joy  or  woe, 

Or,  be  it  slow  or  quicker, 
Never  among  the  people  go, 

And  show  yourself  a  kicker. 


104  ^  may  n°t  Meet  Again. 


We  may  not  flleet  Again. 


\  1  7E  may  not  meet  again, 

For  earth  has  many  ways, 
And  lips  in  other  lands, 

Are  ringing  in  thy  praise. 

But  memory  o'er  me  lies, 

As  a  mantle  in  my  sleep ; 

And  olden  hopes  will  rise, 

Like  spirits  from  the  deep. 

We  may  not  meet  again, 

As  once  we  fondly  met ; 

All  hope  of  that  were  vain, 
But  vainer  to  forget. 

For  not  a  flower  that  flings, 
Its  fragrance  on  the  lea, 

Or  not  a  bird  that  sings, 

But  breathes,  lost  one,  for  thee. 


We  may  not  Meet  Again. 

We  may  not  meet  again, 

But  from  around  my  heart, 

The  light  of  other  days, 
Alas,  will  not  depart; 

But  like  some  lonely  star, 

That  lights  the  deep,  blue  sea, 
Thy  beauty  shines  upon 

The  wave  of  memory. 


io6  A  Judicial  Character. 


R  Judicial  Charaeter. 


O  EE  where  our  pig-eyed  pettifogger  sits, 

A  man  by  court'sy  and  a  Judge  by  fits  ; 
How  like  an  owl,  upon  the  bench  he  blinks, 
Striving  in  vain  to  make  us  think  he  thinks. 
On  legal  points  to  shock  our  virile  sense 
He  fumbles  vainly  in  his  impotence  ; 
So  steeped  in  sin,  yet  innocent  of  law, 
He  deals  out  judgment  like  a  tailed  Beshaw. 
In  Goldsmith's  time  there  once  a  wonder  grew 
How  one  small  head  could  carry  all  it  knew ; 
But  here  't  is  changed,  we  now  a  wonder  find 
To  see  much  carcass  with  so  little  mind. 
Clad  in  a  pious  garb,  to  church  he  hies, 
And  in  the  presence  of  his  Maker  lies. 
Mean  hypocrite  and  meaner  demagogue, 
He  holds  combined  the  worst  of  cat  and  hog ; 
Coarse  as  the  one  and  as  the  other  sly, 
He  walks  the  earth — an  animated  lie  ; 
But,  when  he  rides,  great  Scott !  what  lies 
His  horse  and  carriage  forthwith  advertise ;    . 
A  home-stead  judgment  is  the  steed  he  drives. 


Morning  Prayer.  107 


Prayer. 


"  I AO  Thee,  great  God,  I  humbly  pray 

For  grace  and  light  and  will  and  power 
To  do  each  hour  of  every  day 
That  't  is  Thy  will  on  earth  to  stay, 
The  duties  of  the  day  and  hour. 

I  know  not,  Lord — Thou  knowest  all, 

When  I  shall  pass  through  death's  dark  river, 

And  what  to  me  shall  then  befall  \ 

Weak,  ignorant,  and  blind,  I  call 

To  Thee,  of  all  good  gifts  the  giver. 

That  Thou,  my  Father,  just  and  true, 

When  death  all  ties  to  earth  shall  sever, 

Thou  who  hast  led  me  hitherto, 

With  joys  and  blessings  ever  new, 

Will  be  my  trust  and  hope  forever. 


io8  To  Die  Alone. 


To  Die  fllone. 


r~pO  live  in  crowds,  yet  doomed  to  die  alone; 
What  sudden  sev'rance  in  the  fateful  call, 
When  the  scared  face  is  turned  unto  the  wall 

To  deal  with  death.     No  agonized  caress  nor  moan 

Can  aught  avail.     The  feeble  hands  unclasp ; 
Forth  from  the  windings  of  our  sunlit  shore 
Alone  the  soul  departs  forevermore, 

And  echoless  in  space  our  cries  are  cast. 

The  birds  sing  on,  the  tender  flowers  bloom, 
While  fading  memory  finds  in  time  a  calm; 

Dust  gathers  slowly  on  the  sculptured  tomb, 
And  cold  oblivion  holds  its  healing  balm. 

If  loved  and  lost,  ah,  me !  live  yet  to  bless. 

Why  this  relief  in  dull  forgetfulness  ? 


Change,  109 


Change. 

One  after  one  we  see  our  friends  depart, 

As  stars  of  midnight  melt  unto  the  morn ; 
From  sweetest  dreams  awakes  the  weary  heart, 

To  throb,  like  Ruth's,  "amid  the  alien  corn," 
When,  sick  for  home,  she  sighed,  so  dreary  and  forlorn. 

Yet  not  of  thee  I  grieve,  Oh !  mighty  Death — 
Thy  ways  are  pleasant  ways,  thy  paths  are  peace, 

As  flowers  will  fall  in  Autumn's  quiet  breath, 
At  thy  still  coming,  all  our  troubles  cease — 

But  of  the  death  called  Change— the  living  death, 
That  mocks  us  with  a  semblance  falsely  shown, 

The  ghost  of  what  it  was  without  the  breath 
That  animates  the  soul,  the  altered  tone 
And  cold,  averted  look  that  leaves  us  so  alone. 


no  Tecumseh. 


Tecaiuseh. 


T  T  E  lived  as  lives  the  warrior, 
In  heavy  stream  of  fight, 
He  died  as  dies  the  chieftain 

Ere  came  the  cry  of  flight ; 
He  closed  his  eyes  forever 

On  his  nation's  endless  night. 

No  marble  gleams  above  him, 
No  people  for  him  weeps ; 

The  tears  are  dews  of  autumn, 

The  sighs  the  wind  that  sweeps 

Above  the  lone  cell  narrow, 

Where  the  deathless  hero  sleeps. 

Ah  !  vain  the  brave  endeavor, 
Ah !  vain  the  earnest  cry, 

The  many  sleep  on  ever, 

The  few  march  out  to  die, 

While  finds  heroic  failure 
Its  record  in  a  sigh. 


Oh,  Sing  no  More.  nl 


Oh,  Sing  no 


!  sing  no  more  that  song  so  glad, 
Wake  not  its  melody, 
For  now,  alas,  the  strain  is  sad 

That  once  was  sweet  to  me ; 
For  she  whose  tender   loving  hands 

First  smote  its  magic  chord 
In  heaven  amid  the  sinless  stands 
To  sing  before  her  Lord. 

Ah !  bitter  tears  of  vanished  years, 

Ah !  heart  benumbed  by  pain, 
How  quickening  anguish  reappears 

To  live  along  that  strain; 
The  dull,  dead  longing  comes  apace, 

That  years  in  death  has  lain, 
To  look  upon  that  loving  face 

I  ne'er  may  see  again. 


ii2  Oh,  Sing  no  More. 

Forgive  me,  love,  if  my  weak  plaint 

A  shadow  o'er  thee  shed; 
Ah !  more  than  wife,  nor  less  than  saint, 

We  mourn  our  common  dead. 
The  sweet  romance  of  sunny  birth 

Has  faded  from  my  brow, 
For  that  which  was  but  love  on  earth 

Is  our  religion  now. 


Death.  113 


Death. 

T  1  7HY  should  I  shrink  from  thy  dark  presence,  Death, 
So  near  me  now  when  fleeting  years  are  brief; 

Soon  thy  chill  touch  shall  be  my  sole  relief 
From  racking  pains,  dimmed  eyes  and  gasping  breath. 

To  die  from  earth  and  never  feel  agen 

The  kiss  of  love  nor  kindly  grasp  of  men 
I  would  not  fear  if  from  those  fleshless  lips 

Aught  I  could  learn  of  that  dim  life  to  come ; 
Yet  light  in  night  has  but  a  hushed  eclipse, 

The  grave  is  silent  and  its  master  dumb. 
Startled  I  gaze  into  the  starlit  sky, 

When  God  recedes  from  thought  in  boundless  space, 

And  faith  grows  faint  in  His  redeeming  grace — 
Oh,  Holy  Mother  !  hear  my  helpless  cry  ! 


10 


LOST  AND  WON. 


CHARACTERS  OF   PLAY. 

HON.  HAMILTON  BARR,  Virginia  gentleman. 
YOUNGER  BARR,  his  son. 

CAPTAIN,  after,  COLONEL,  LACY,  U.  S.  Army  of  Volunteers. 
AMOS  ADZE,  private,  after,  cabinet  maker. 
BUCKTHORN,  overseer,  after,  detective. 
OLD  SCHACK,  colored  house  servant. 
OLD  JEFF,  colored  "Prophet  of  de  Lawd." 
LORD  TOMNODDY,  English  attraction. 
FITZPOODLE,  American  attraction. 
SERGEANT  BANG,  servant  to  Lacy. 
BESSIE  BARR,  daughter  of  Hamilton  Barr. 
AUNT  HESTER  BARR,  sister  of  Hamilton  Barr. 
HELEN  DASH,  after,  MRS.  COL.  LACY. 
Slaves,  soldiers,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  police,  and  creditors. 


PROLOGUE. 

SCENE:  On  the  James.  Distant  view  of  river  and  moun- 
tains beyond.  To  the  right  an  old  family  tomb  with  "  Barr  " 
above  the  entrance.  Time,  sunset.  As  the  sun  goes  down 
camp  fires  appear  on  mountains,  and  through  entire  scene  distant 
roar  o*  artillery  heard. 

Curtain   discovers   old    Schack,  Jeff,   and   slaves,   men    and 

women,  looking  off  toward  mountains. 

0 

First  Slave.  Dye 's  comin',  shu  enuff.  An'  de  Lawd 
knows  dye  's  thousands  and  thousands  ob  'em. 

("5) 


n6  Lost  and  Won. 

Second  Slave.  An'  dey  's  got  big  guns,  too.  Jis  you 
listen.  Aint  it  awful  ? 

First  Slave.  Dey'l  hab  use  foh  'em.  Young  Mass' 
Barr  say  dat  one  Souvner  is  good  foh  tree  dem  Yankees. 

Second  Slave.  Oh,  shaw,  dat 's  talk.  Aint  dey  come, 
and  do  n't  they  keep  a'  coming  ?  Where 's  yer  Souvner 
as  keep  'em  back  ?  You  talks  foolishness  wid  yer  young 
Mass'  Barr. 

First  Slave.  Don't  know.  Hope's  its  foolishness. 
When  Yanks  come,  de  nigger  go.  Mind  dat.  He  draps 
de  hoe  handle  like  a  hot  poker,  an'  has  his  freedom  on 
de  spot.  De  Lawd  knows  I  want  dem  Yankees.  But 
I'se  afraid,  I  is. 

Second  Slave.  The  Lawd's  on  dar  side,  and  when  de 
Lawd  takes  side,  as  ole  Mass'  Barr  says,  dar 's  a  majority. 
I  stand  by  de  Lawd  and  de  Yanks,  I  do. 

Schack.  An'  I 's  ashamed  ob  you.  You  here  'uns 
has  been  a  eating'  of  Massa's  bread  and  wearin'  de  Massa's 
clos,  you  sleeps  under  de  roof  he  gibs  you,  an'  when 
you 's  sick,  he  doctors  you,  and  when  you  dies  he  buries 
you. 

Second  Slave.  An'  when  we  do  n't  work  he  whips  us, 
an'  when  he  wants  de  money,  he  sells  us  to  de  plantations 
down  Souf. 

Schack.  Shut  you  lyin'  mouf.  Dar  aint  bin  a  darkey 
sole  off  dis  place  for  a  hundred  year. 


Lost  and  Won.  117 

Second  Slave.  Dat  's  so.  Ole  Mass'  Barr  mity  good, 
but  you  jis  wait  till  young  Mass'  Barr  comes  in,  honey; 
den  you  look  out.  Dey  do  say  ole  Mass'  Barr  done  sole 
us  aready. 

Schack.  Dey  says  lies,  you  ornary  nigger.  Ole  Mass' 
Barr  neber  do  sick  thing.  He's  mity  kind  to  his  niggers. 

Second  Slave.  Yas,  an'  he  lets  dat  oberseer,  Buck- 
thorn, work  us,  and  Mass'  Buckthorn  mighty  handy  wid 
de  whip. 

Schack.  'Cause  yer  so  ornary.  Look  at  Mass'  Harris' 
niggers.  Dey  do  moh  work  in  a  day  dan  you  git  off  in  a 
mounf.  It  jes  makes  me  sick,  it  does.  You  'uns  got  no 
t'anks  in  ye. 

Second  Slave.  Dat's  all  high  talk  in  ye,  ole  Shack. 
You'se  a  house  nigger.  You's  got  de  best  ob  everyting. 
You  wears  de  best  ob  clos;  you  eats  ob  de  fat  ob  de  Ian'. 
We  'uns,  field  niggers,  hab  de  rags,  de  con  pone,  an'  de 
lash.  Oh,  you  go  'long.  I  'se  foh  de  Yanks,  all  de  time. 

Schack.  Heah  him,  heah  him.  Oh,  you  ornary  cuss. 
De  Mass'  ought  to  take  dat  out  you  black  hide  wid  de 
whip. 

Second  Slave.  Got  to  cotch  me  fust.  Onct  de  nigger 
went  to  de  Norf ;  now  de  Norf  comes  to  de  nigger.  Onct 
de  nigger  run;  now  de  Massa  run.  Yes,  sah,  dat's  de 
fact. 

Schack,     Dis  talk  is  disgustin'.     You  poh  debil,  you 


n8  Lost  and  Won. 

do  n't  know  what  you  talk  'bout.  You  wants  to  leab  your 
kind  massa  an'  your  warm  home  for  de  cold  Norf,  yer 
does,  wha'  de  snow  an'  ice  makes  nigger  ob  no  'count. 
I  'se  bin  in  de  Bah  family — de  richest  an'  grandist  family 
in  all  Virginy — man  an'  boy,  nigh  onto  seventy  year,  an' 
please  de  Lawd,  I  means  to  die  under  dar  roof.  Ef  de 
wus'  comes  to  de  wus',  I  shahed  dar  prosperity  an'  I'll 
shah  dar  troubles. 

Second  Slave.  Aint  much  left  to  shah,  Schack,  wid 
'em.  You's  ole,  Schack. 

Schack.  Yes,  I  'se  ole,  an'  I  'se  grown  ole  in  dar  ser- 
vice. Mass'  Barr  an'  me  played  togedder  as  chilern. 
My  mudder  was  his  mammy,  an'  I 'se  too  ole  to  turn 
ornary  and  bite  de  han'  dat  git  me  bread.  I 's  sick  ob 
you,  you  poh  trash. 

Second  Slave.  Dem  hard  words  don't  hurt.  Thar's 
ole  Doctah  Jeff.  Stan'  back,  niggers,  ole  Jeff  sees  de 
Lawd.  (OLD  JEFF  comes  solemnly  forward  and  gazes  off.) 
Jis  ye  look  at  him.  Get  yer  eye  on  de  colored  prophet 
ob  de  Lawd.  What  is  it,  Jeff? 

Jeff.  (After  a  roar  of  artillery  in  the  distance.)  It's  de 
Lawd  proclaiming  freedom  to  de  oppressed  on  de  moun- 
tains an'  in  de  valleys.  He  says  in  thunder:  "No  moh 
chains  and  whips  foh  his  chilern."  De  poh  slave  fled 
from  de  oppressor.  He  followed  de  norf  star  by  night 
an'  hid  in  the  swamps  by  day ;  now  de  norf  star  comes  to 


Lost  and  Won.  119 

de  poh  slave  in  de  day  time,  and  de  thunder  ob  de  Lawd 
says:  "Bewah!"     (Artillery  as  before.'}     (Sings): 

Dah  's  light  upon  de  mountains — 

Sing,  Oh,  de  Jubalee; 
'T  is  de  coming  ob  de  Savior 

To  set  de  darkey  free. 
He  takes  burden  from  de  sholdah 

An'  de  shackles  from  de  han'; 
Dah 's  light  upon  de  mountains 

An'  freedom  in  de  Ian'. 

Chorus— Sing,  Oh,  sing  de  Jubilee. 

Oh,  hurry  up  good  Savior  and  set 
de  darkey  free. 

( Union  soldiers  in  the  distance  sing  a  verse  from  John 
Brown.) 

(JEFF  sings): 

Oh,  harken  to  de  voices 

A  'ringing  in  de  a'. 
'T  is  de  comin'  ob  our  Moses, 

An'  he  tells  'em  to  bewah. 
We  has  waited  long  in  sorrow, 

We's  toilin'  in  de  night; 
But  do  n't  you  see  de  morrow 

A  breakin'  into  light  ? 

(Chorus  as  before,  answered  by  Union  soldiers.     After,  a 
negro  dance). 

Enter  BUCKTHORN,  cracking  a  whip. 
Buckthorn.    You  black  devils,  stop  this  racket.     Slope, 
I  say.     (Cutting  among  them.)      The  Yanks  may  set  you 


120  Lost  and  Won. 

free ;  but,  until  they  do,  I  'm  master  here.  Get  to  your 
quarters,  you  lazy  snakes. 

Old  Jeff.     But,  Massa  Buckthorn— 

Buckthorn.  Not  another  word,  or  I  '11  break  your 
damned  infernal  jaw.  Off,  I  say.  (Drives  them  off  with 
whip.  Looks  off.)  The  Yanks  have  covered  the  river  in 
spite  of  Colonel  Randolph's  guns.  They  '11  soon  be  here, 
and  then  good-bye  Barr  Hall  and  my  pleasant  business  of 
whaling  niggers.  I  wonder  what  the  old  man  is  about ; 
been  busy  as  the  devil  all  night  with  that  English  agent 
and  his  lawyer.  Thought  at  first  't  was  the  police  after 
me,  and  so  I  watched.  Saw  the  Bull  give  the  old  man  a 
pile  that  he  handled  as  if  it  was  very  precious.  What  is 
he  up  to?  Hello,  here  he's  coming  with  his  son  and 
that  pretty  daughter.  I'll  watch  a  little  longer.  (Steps 
behind  tomb.) 

Enter  HAMILTON  BARR,  BESSIE,  and  YOUNG  BARR,  the 
latter  in  new  Confederate  uniform. 

Elder  Barr.  I  have  brought  you  here,  my  children, 
that  you  may  be  parties  to  and  witnesses  of  a  business  of 
vital  importance  to  us  all.  It  can  not  be  delayed.  The 
Union  army  approaches,  and  you,  my  son,  leave  us  to- 
night. 

Young  Barr.  Yes,  my  father.  I  must  hasten  to  re- 
port to  my  General  and  with  the  unpleasant  news  that 


Lost  and  Won.  121 

the  Yankees  have  forced  the  passage  of  the  river.  They 
will  soon  be  here.  What  will  you  and  Bessie  do, 
father? 

Elder  Barr.  Remain  quietly  at  home.  I  suppose 
the  Federal  General  in  command  is  a  gentleman  and  will 
give  us  protection.  But  time  presses  and  I  have  a  matter 
of  vital  importance  to  communicate.  This  war,  appealed 
to  by  the  South,  will  end  disastrously  to  the  South. 

Young  Barr  and  Bessie.     Oh,  father ! 

Elder  Barr.  I  know  it  is  hard  to  say,  but  my  head 
is  not  disturbed  by  prejudice  nor  passion.  The  South 
will  hurl  itself  with  frantic  courage  against  the  inevitable. 
It  calls  a  wrong  its  right  and  attempts  to  fling  back  the 
civilization  of  a  thousand  years.  Sustaining  this  wrong 
we  have  weakened  in  peace,  while  the  North  grew  strong. 
We  appeal  to  arms  with  an  enemy  we  have  fattened, 
while  we  lost  strength,  and  in  this  war  against  civilization, 
humanity  and  brute  force,  the  South  will  go  down  with 
nought  left  in  memory  of  a  lost  cause  but  the  high 
courage  of  a  desperate  one. 

Young  Barr.  Why  then  should  I  go  out  to  battle  for 
a  wrong  and  a  defeat  ? 

Elder  Barr.  Because  you  are  a  Virginian,  and  when 
in  the  clash  of  arms  the  Old  Dominion  calls  to  her  sons, 
they  can  not  pause  to  question  right  or  wrong. 

Young  Barr.     I  can  not  believe  the  courage  and  de- 

TI 


122  Lost  and  \tfon. 

votion  of  such  sons,  in  repelling  an  invasion  of  hired  ruf- 
fians, will  go  for  naught.  God  is  with  us. 

Elder  Barr.  We  have  slept  away  our  strength.  My 
son,  have  you  thought  that  the  uniform  you  wear  was 
manufactured  in  Massachusetts?  Your  pistols  came  from 
Connecticut.  Your  very  boots  were  made  in  some  New 
England  village.  The  sword  you  are  to  wear,  and  be 
proud  of,  was  wrought  in  New  Jersey,  and,  Oh,  my  son, 
should  you  fall,  your  coffin  itself,  if  you  are  so  fortunate 
as  to  have  one,  will  be  from  Pennsylvania.  While  we 
have  slept  in  peace  on  our  plantations,  supported  by  .a 
remnant  of  barbarism,  called  slavery,  the  world  has  swept 
by  us,  and  now  we  waken  in  wrath  to  offer  our  naked 
breasts  to  inevitable  ruin. 

Young  Barr.  And  we  will  make  the  march  of  the 
invaders  a  highway  of  human  bones,  and  about  every 
bier  of  a  Southern  soldier  pile  a  monument  of  dead. 

Elder  Barr.  Go,  my  son.  To  do  your  duty  you 
have  given  bond  in  being  a  Barr  and  a  Virginian.  May 
Heaven  protect  you.  Before  we  part  let  me  say  to  you 
that,  believing  this  cruel  war  will  end  in  ruin  to  our  side, 
I  have  converted  all  my  property  into  money  and  English 
securities.  It  was  my  intent  to  go  with  sister  to  Europe 
with  them,  but  the  lines  have  closed  in  on  us  so  suddenly 
that  I  can  not  hope  to  escape  at  present.  But  I  have 
thought  of  a  safe  deposit  where  they  can  remain  until 


Lost  and  Won.  123 

opportunity  for  removal  offers.  In  this  tomb  of  our 
fathers  I  will  conceal  this  wealth.  Should  aught  unfor- 
tunate occur  to  me,  it  is  well  you  should  know  the  place 
where  it  is  to  be  found.  (Unlocks  door  of  tomb;  enters 
with  YOUNG  BARR  and  BESSIE.  BUCKTHORN  steals  in  and 
looks  at  them. 

Buckthorn.  So,  so,  hiding  his  money.  I  have  it.  I 
see  my  way  out.  Now  for  a  Yank  to  help  me  move  the 
deposits.  (Exit.) 

Re-enter  from  tomb  ELDER  and  YOUNGER  BARR  and  BESSIE. 

Elder  Barr.  There,  I  feel  relieved.  We  can  now  go 
our  several  ways  in  safety,  for  no  one  will  think  to  dis- 
turb the  dead,  and,  if  so,  the  treasure  will  yet  remain 
concealed.  (Enter  AMOS  ADZE,  prepared  for  travel.) 
What,  Amos,  you  prepared  to  leave? 

Amos.  Yes,  sir,  with  a  heavy  heart.  The  hour  is  on 
us  when  I  must  take  sides  in  this  awful  conflict,  or,  like 
a  coward,  get  beyond  its  hearing. 

Young  Barr.  And,  my  adopted  brother,  you  go  with 
me  to  repel  these  invaders  ? 

•Amos.  No,  my  brother.  I  have  thought  of  all  you 
urged,  and  the  same  motive  that  animates  you  influences 
me.  You  take  up  arms  for  your  State,  and  the  same  duty 
calls  me  to  mine  in  the  cold  North.  I  am,  you  know,  a 
native  of  New  England ;  I  first  drew  breath  in  the  moun- 


124  Lost  and  Won. 

tains  of  Vermont.  They  are  all  my  kin.  I  am  not 
native  here. 

Young  Barr.  Nor  a  true  son  by  adoption !  Your 
State  is  not  invaded. 

Amos.  Pardon  me.  When  Virginia  strikes  at  the 
Union  she  invades  Vermont.  The  flag  we  follow,  that  you 
would  trail  in  the  dust,  is  the  flag  given  us  by  our  fathers, 
and,  like  the  broad  heavens  above,  covers  all  the  land. 

Young  Barr.  Ingrate !  Is  this  the  return  made  us 
for  the  nurture  and  care  given  you  from  your  childhood  ? 
A  beggar,  dependent  on  my  father's  bounty  ! 

Bessie.     Oh,  Charles! 

Elder  Barr.  For  shame,  my  son !  Recorded  obliga- 
tions cease  to  be  gifts.  The  truly  noble  'take  no  account 
of  favors  bestowed. 

Young  Barr.  But  this  is  life  or  death.  The  hired 
ruffians  invade  our  soil,  and  seek  over  our  bodies  to 
desolate  our  homes,  and  an  adopted  son — 

Elder  Barr.  Is  not  to  be  judged  by  us.  There  is  a 
higher  tribunal  to  which  we  must  appeal.  Let  such  judg- 
ment condemn,  and  condemn  it  will  one  side  or  the  other. 

Young  Barr.  I  forgot  your  presence,  sir,  and  ask 
your  pardon. 

Elder  Barr.  You  forgot  yourself.  Under  no  circum- 
stances can  a  true  Virginian  cease  to  be  a  gentleman. 
This  lad  is  yet  under  our  roof  and  shares  our  salt. 


Lost  and  Won.  125 

Young  Barr.  Your  hand,  Amos.  We  have  not  yet 
grasped  the  weapon  that  is  to  shed  our  blood.  Forgive  me. 

Amos.     With  all  my  heart. 

Young  Barr.     Come,  sister,  my  sword. 

Bessie.  I  will  buckle  it  on.  Oh,  my  brother,  may 
Heaven  send  you  safe  again  to  us.  (Weeps). 

Young  Barr.  I  go  with  all  my  heart,  an  officer  to 
offer  my  life  for  a  holy  cause. 

Amos.  And  I  as  a  private  to  sustain  the  flag  your 
fathers,  as  well  as  mine,  gave  us  as  a  sacred  trust. 

Bessie.     I  have  no  sword  for  you,  Amos. 

Amos.  I  must  win  before  I  can  wear  one.  Farewell. 
(To  elder  Barr.}  I  lack  the  words  to  fit  the  feelings  of 
my  heart  for  all  you  have  done  for  the  widow  and  orphan. 

Elder  Barr.  I  but  did  my  duty,  boy,  no  more.  Go 
you  to  yours  by  such  lights  as  to  you  seem  best.  Fare- 
well, my  sons.  (Exit  YOUNG  BARR  to  right;  AMOS  to  left.) 
A  cruel  war  that  sends  thus  into  hostile  ranks  two  brothers 
of  one  race,  if  not  one  blood !  Come,  my  child,  the  old 
and  the  young,  feeble  alike,  are  left  to  suffer  in  their 
lonely  homes,  there  to  await  the  desolation  that  comes  of 
death.  (Exeunt.) 

Enter  BUCKTHORN,  followed  by  CAPTAIN  LACY. 
Lacy.     Come,  now,  my  man.     I  go  no  further.    What 
is  it  you  have  to  communicate  ? 


126  Lost  and  Won. 

Buckthorn.  No  need  to  travel  off  this  spot.  See  that 
old  tomb  ? 

Lacy.     Quite  plainly. 

Buckthorn.  The  rebel  who  owns,  or  did  own,  all  this 
part  of  the  country,  has  turned  his  lands,  niggers,  and 
cotton  into  cash,  and  hid  it  there. 

Lacy.  You  infernal  scoundrel,  would  you  have  me 
rob  the  grave  ? 

Buckthorn.  Hard  words,  Captain,  and  a  little  incon- 
sistent. You  came  out  to  kill  and  hesitate  to  plunder. 
You  will  leave  a  million  to  help  on  the  rebellion. 

Lacy.  True  enough.  It  is  my  duty  to  seize  this 
wealth  and  turn  it  over  to  the  government. 

Buckthorn.  Why,  certainly.  Seize  first  and  turn  it 
over  afterward.  I  '11  assist  in  this  good  work.  ( Wrenches 
open  door  with  bar,  and  both  enter.] 

Enter  HELEN. 

Helen.  What  can  my  handsome  Captain  be  doing  in 
that  old  tomb?  (Looks  in.)  He  and  another  are  digging. 
What  can  it  mean?  They  come.  (Hides  behind  tomb.} 

Re-enter  LACY  and  BUCKTHORN. 

Buckthorn.  Your  troops  approach.  I  must  not  be 
caught  here.  Farewell,  most  noble  Captain.  We  will 
meet  again  when  you  have  turned  that  million  over  to  the 


Lost  and  Won.  127 

government.  Do  n't  fail  in  that,  the  government  is  so 
poor.  (Exit  hurriedly,  stooping  as  if  to  avoid  observation.) 

Lacy.  (Looking  at  securities).  A  million,  he  said,  and 
I  hold  it  in  my  hand.  May  make  it  mine.  The  gathered 
accumulation  of  many  toilsome  lives,  and  mine  by  one 
easy  act.  I  hold  ease,  power,  luxury  in  my  hand  and  am 
lifted  from  mean  privation.  Shall  I  ?  (HELEN,  unseen  by 
him,  touches  his  arm.  He  starts.)  Damnation !  how  you 
startled  me ! 

Helen.     A  soldier,  and  afraid  ? 

Lacy.     What  are  you  doing  here  ? 

Helen.  I  followed  you  to  the  camp ;  I  followed  you 
to  the  grave.  There 's  devotion  for  you  ! 

Lacy.  Your  following  is  a  bore.  I  am  being  laughed 
at.  I  am  weary  of  it.  I  shall  make  complaint  and  have 
you  sent  back  through  our  lines. 

Helen.  No!  you  will  not,  my  handsome  Captain. 
When  you  return  me  through  the  lines,  you  turn  that 
million  over  to  the  government.  Make  yourself  mine 
and  you  make  that  million  your  own.  It  is  my  marriage 
portion. 

Lacy.     You  tempt  me  to  crime. 

Helen.  As  you  have  tempted  me.  Turn  about  is  fair 
play. 

(A  roll  of  drums  is  heard,  with  roar  of  artillery.  A 
bright  light  illumines  the  stage. ) 


128  Lost  and  Won. 

Lacy.  The  rebels  burn  their  stores  and  are  in  full 
retreat.  Our  troopers  advance.  Come,  girl.  (Exeunt.} 

The  tramp  of  soldiers  heard.  A  band  plays  the  ' '  Red, 
White,  and  Blue."  Union  forces  march  in  upon  the  left,  as 
a  crowd  of  slaves,  men,  women,  and  children,  rush  in  from 
the  right  and  fall  upon  their  knees.  Tableau. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE:  Garden  to  a  cottage.  Hudson  and  Palisades  seen  in  the 
distance.  Cottage  on  the  right  and  a  few  rustic  seats  and  flowers. 
Old  Schack  discovered  watering  flowers. 

Schack.  Well,  well,  dis  am  a  comin'  down,  shu  'miff. 
De  Bah  family  had  a  hundred  niggers,  chariots  and 
coaches,  wuk  hosses  and  race  hosses ;  'bakker  in  Virginy, 
cotton  at  the  Souf ;  a  house  of  fifty  rooms  and  barrels  ob 
money.  All  come  to  lib  in  a  mean  house  like  dat  an' 
amost  dependin'  on  Schack  for  dar  daily  bread.  Foh  de 
Lawd,  I  doan  know  how  long  dis  thing  goin'  to  las',  I 
doan.  Dese  heah  credtors  gittin'  thicker  an'  thicker  ebery 
day.  Heah  is  de  wus  ob  'em  all.  He 's  de  butcher's 
agent.  Now,  ole  Schack,  brace  up.  Dis  a  credtor,  dat 
zasperates  de  cuss. 

Enter  SKINBILL. 

SkinbilL     I  say,  old  powder-puff,  where  is  the  boss  ? 


Lost  and  Won.  129 

Schack.  {With  dignity).  Who  you  designate  as  pow- 
dah  puff?  Who  you  terms  boss,  eh  ? 

Skinbill.  My  eyes !  Aint  old  Africa  dignified  ?  Why, 
he  carries  more  dignity  to  the  square  inch  than  an  obe- 
lisk. 

Schack.  An'  you  carries  moh  dam  brass  'an  ed  make 
a  copper  kettle.  You  is  one  ob  'em  poh  debils  as  is  hired 
to  be  disagreeable  ca'se  you  is  so  ornary. 

Skinbill.  Well,  I  aint  going  to  stand  here  all  day 
swapping  sass  with  a  nigger.  I  want  to  see  this  old  Vir- 
ginia gent.  Got  to  have  the  money  or  know  why. 
There's  the  bill  and  if  it  aint  paid  before  night,  got  to  sue. 
We  do  n't  furnish  meat  for  poor  old  Virginia  gentlemen  to 
live  on  without  paying  for  it,  we  do  n't. 

Schack.  You  do  n't  ?  Nobody  'specks  you  ebber  did. 
I'd  like  to  see  how  you  lib. 

Skinbill.  I  put  up  at  the  Brunswick,  old  coon.  Just 
drop  in  and  I  will  present  you  to  Mrs.  Skinbill  and  the 
little  Skinbills,  and  we  '11  have  a  champagne  lunch.  There 
comes  another  bill  on  legs. 

Enter  GROCER. 

Grocer.  I  say,  uncle,  can  Jt  you  do  something  for  us 
to-day  ?  Sorry  to  trouble  you. 

Schack.  No  trouble  in  de  wor',  sah.  I  was  jus'  makin' 
de  necessary  preparation  foh  dat,  sah. 

Skinbill.     Hear  him.     For  cool  impudence  and  dignity 


130  Lost  and  Won. 

I'd  back  this  old  darkey  against  an  alderman.  Hello, 
here  comes  more  of  us.  As  Booth  says,  Come  like 
shadows  and  so  depart,  without  a  shadow  of  settlement. 
{Enter  creditors.}  Welcome,  gentlemen.  Room  for  all. 
The  more  the  merrier. 

First  Creditor.  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Barr,  and  I  haint 
much  time  to  lose,  either. 

Schack.  Berry  sorry,  sah ;  berry  sorry,  sah,  but  Mas' 
Bah  left  on  de  early  train  foh  de  city  on  bizness  ob  great 
importance. 

Second  Creditor.  Believe  your  lyin',  old  man.  I  was  at 
the  depot  at  the  early  train  and  I  didn't  see  "Mass' 
Bah,"  as  you  call  him. 

Third  Creditor.  Well,  I  've  been  put  off  long  enough. 
You  have  promised  me  every  day  now  for  a  month,  and 
making  that  bill  bigger  and  bigger  all  the  time. 

First  Creditor.  Let 's  raid  the  house  and  smoke  out 
the  old  gent.  {They  make  a  move.} 

Schack.  Genelmen  !  genelmen  !  Doan  want  to  git  you 
into  any  trubble,  but  doan  you  go  ni  dat  house. 

First  Creditor.     Why  not  ? 

Schack.  Why,  did  n't  heah  de  news  ?  Did  n't  ye  heah. 
de  awful  calamity  dat  come  on  dat  house  ? 

Second  Creditor.     No,  what  is  it  ?     Old  boss  dead  ? 

Schack.  No,  sah;  no,  sah;  dat's  not  it.  Its  wus! 
Why,  my  younges'  chile  has  taken  down  wid  de  small-pox. 


Lost  and  Won.  131 

I  'specs  de  amb'lance  ebery  minit.      All  de  family  has 

gone  to  de  city. 

Skinbill.     Holy  Moses  !    And  I  've  been  here  breathin' 

this  old  rascal  for  ten' minutes.     I  feel  as  if  I  was  breakin' 

out  this  minute.     (Moving  off.) 

First  Creditor.     Better  get  out  of  this  !     (All  move. ) 
Schack.     Doan  be  skarred ;  I  'se  had  it  afore,  genel- 

men.     Genelmen,    I   want    dose    bills.     Anyway    shake 

hands. 

Second  Creditor.     Oh,  go  to  the  devil.     (All  huiry  off.} 
Schack.     Yah,   Yah,  but  dey  is  skarred.     Well,  well, 

dat  angel  Gabriel  must  be  kept  purty  bizzy  puttin'  down 

my  lies— an'  all  tole  foh  de  ole  massa. 

Enter  AMOS  ADZE  with  lady's  work-table. 

Amos.  Good  morning,  uncle  Schack.  How  are  the 
folks  to-day  ? 

Schack.  Dey's  purty  well,  Mr.  Amos,  purty  well, 
considerin'  I  introduced  de  small-pox  in  de  house  dis 
mornin'. 

Amos.     What  do  you  mean  ?     Small-pox  ? 

Schack.  Yah,  yah.  I  jis  did.  Now,  Mr.  Amos,  I 
puts  it  to  you,  aint  de  small-pox  a  legal  offense  agin  credi- 
tors ?  You  can 't  take  hot  water  to  'em ;  nor  set  de  dog 
on  'em ;  nor  shoot  'em  wid  a  shot-gun,  but  you  can  say 
small-pox  at  'em  an'  see  'em  run.  Yah  !  yah ! 


132  Lost  and  Won. 

Amos.  I  see.  Yes,  I  met  them  looking  decidedly 
alarmed  and  one  warned  me  to  take  care.  But,  uncle 
Schack,  this  will  have  unpleasant  consequences.  The 
Board  of  Health  will  be  after  you,  and  every  one  in  the 
village  will  avoid  you. 

Schack.  Oh,  shaw !  I  jis  tells  it  was  a  false  'larm. 
Dat  it  was  only  vary-lawd.  You  see  ? 

Amos.     But  are  you  so  pursued  by  creditors? 

Schack.  I  is.  But,  bress  your  soul,  I  stand  'tween  de 
family  and  dis  gang  and  I  does  it  so  de  family  doan  know. 
De  ole  massa  and  Miss  Bessie  'd  go  destrackted  if  dey 
knew. 

Amos.  Poor  old  man,  and  has  it  come  to  this  ?  And 
does  he  know  nothing  of  these  troubles  ? 

Schack.  Well,  he  has  to  know  sometimes.  You  see, 
dar  is  a  bill  gits  in  in  spite  of  me.  An'  den  he  talks  about 
a  'mittance  from  Washington.  I  doan  know  what  he 
means  about  dat  sort  ob  property.  I  looks  mity  close 
'bout  his  desk  and  in  his  clos'  when  I  brush  'em,  an'  doan 
see  no  'mittance  about.  I  doan  b'lieve,  Amos,  dat  de  ole 
man  has  a  'mittance.  He  rather  gittin'  loose  about  de 
head. 

Amos.  You  mean  a  remittance,  uncle  Schack.  He 
has  that  monthly,  I  know,  but  that  wont  go  very  far  to- 
ward keeping  a  family.  How  do  you  manage,  I  can  not 
make  out  ? 


Lost  and  Won.  133 

Schack.  Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Amos,  de  Lawd  is  good 
to  the  poh,  and  he  has  put  our  lines  in  among  de  chickens 
an'  de  eggs  of  rich  enemies.  I  has  n't  lived  in  ole  Virginny 
an'  not  know  how  to  charm  de  chickens  an'  de  eggs  into 
the  poh  man's  pot. 

Amos.  Good  Lord,  uncle  Schack,  you  are  not  stealing 
chickens  and  eggs  for  the  Barr  family  ? 

Schack.  Mr.  Amos,  I  'se  a  reasonin'  like.  I  larned 
from  de  pulpit  dat  when  de  chilern  of  Isrel  was  driven 
from  de  house  ob  bondage  dey  done  took  wid  'em  all  de 
chickens  an'  de  pots  an'  pans  ob  de  'pressor.  An'  de 
preacher,  Mass'  Beecher,  tells  us  dat  de  Lawd  approved 
of  dem  proceeduns. 

Amos.     (Laughing.}     I  hardly  think  the  cases  parallel. 

Schack.  Doan  know  'bout  de  parlels,  but  dem  Yanks 
cumd  down  in  our  Ian'  and  jis  gobbles  up  ebery  ting. 
Why,  bress  you  soul,  honey,  but  de  pigs,  chickens  an'  de 
turkeys,  dey  go  like  snow  afore  de  sun,  and  dey  takes  all 
Mass'  Ban's  money  hid  in  de  ole  toomb,  an'  we  can't 
'talliate. 

Amos.  All  very  well  to  your  mind,  uncle  Schack,  but 
you  better  not  let  Mr.  Barr  know. 

Schack.  Lor'  look-ye-heah !  I  want  born  dis  mornin'! 
But  I  say,  Mass'  Amos,  could  you  help  us  a  little,  nanshally, 
you  know  ? 

Amos.     I  fear  not,   uncle  Schack.     I  wish   I   could. 


134  Lost  and  Won. 

But  it  is  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  live.  When  I  came  out 
of  the  war  on  one  leg  I  had  to  look  about  for  a  living. 
Find  some  trade  good  for  wages.  I  had  to  steal  it. 

Schack.     Steal  it,  Mr.  Amos  ? 

Amos.  Yes,  Schack.  These  labor  unions  are  close 
corporations  and  seek  to  keep  up  prices  by  restricting  pro- 
duction. So  only  a  favored  few  are  permitted  to  learn  a 
trade. 

Schack.     Doan  clarly  see. 

Amos.  Well,  labor  is  combined  against  capital,  as 
capital  is  combined  against  labor.  Only  labor  has  seized 
on  one  of  the  worst  features  of  capital  organization — that 
of  forcing  a  limited  supply. 

Schack.  Doan  understan'  dem  language.  But  it  do 
seem  to  dis  chile  dat  you  white  folks  dat  was  so  ready  to 
fight  for  de  darkey,  might  fight  foh  yourselves. 

Amos.  Not  much  good  in  fighting,  Schack.  In  all 
the  century  long  war  for  human  rights  the  people  lose 
through  fraud  all  that  they  gain  through  violence. 

Schack.  Jis,  so ;  jis,  so !  I  has  obsarved  de  same. 
But  tell  us  how  you  steal  yer  trade. 

Amos.  I  found  an  old  bullet-headed  German  willing 
to  teach  me  cabinet  making.  It  was  a  hard  struggle,  but 
I  have  it  at  last,  and,  thank  Heaven,  I  am  one  of  the 
union,  and  now  we  are  all  on  a  strike.  Uncle  Schack, 


Lost  and  Won.  135 

will  you  place  this  little  workstand  in  the  room  of  Miss 
Bessie  ?     God  bless  her. 

Schack.     To  be  shu;  to  be  shu.     (Exit  with  table.} 

Enter  AUNT  HESTER  as  from  a  walk. 

Aunt  Hester.  Bless  me,  but  I  am  tired.  Walked 
from  Fourteenth  street  to  Central  depot  because  I  had  n't 
money  enough  to  pay  car  fare.  Ah,  Amos,  you  here  ? 

Amos.  Yes,  Miss  Hester.  I  am  but  now  up  from  the 
city.  Missed  each  other  by  a  train. 

Aunt  Hester.  Dear  me,  I  am  sorry.  It  would  have 
been  pleasant  to  have  had  your  company.  It  is  very  un- 
pleasant, Amos,  to  be  so  restricted  in  money  matters  as  we 
are.  When  I  think  of  our  profusion  in  the  past  and  our 
embarrassment  now,  I  can  scarcely  believe  we  are  the 
same  people. 

'Amos.     I  can  testify  to  the  difference,  Miss  Hester. 

Aunt  Hester.  We  had  such  abundance,  so  much  com- 
pany, horses,  carriages  and  servants  without  limit.  I  was 
a  giddy  young  thing  when  brother  Barr  entertained  at  his 
house  the  entire  legislature.  Dear  me,  dear  me,  how  long 
ago  that  seems  !  There  was  an  elderly  gentleman,  Senator 
Shinglepeg,  a  man  of  large  property,  an  old  bachelor. 
You  do  n't  remember,  Amos  ? 

Amos.     No,  Miss  Hester. 

Aunt  Hester.    No.    Why  how  could  you  ?     You  wern't 


136  Lost  and  Won. 

born  then.  Well,  the  senator  fell  desperately  in  love  with 
me,  and  asked  brother  Barr  for  my  hand.  Well,  well,  I 
could  n't  abide  him.  He  had  a  blue  tooth  and  a  cast  in 
his  eye — not  much  in  the  way  of  looks — but  large  property. 
Amos,  I  am  sorry  at  times  that  I  did  n't  shut  my  eye  to  his 
blue  tooth  and  irregular  eye.  When  I  see  the  trouble  we 
are  in  I  am  real  sorry  I  did  n't  shut  my  giddy  eyes  to  his 
two  defects,  for,  in  the  main,  barring  the  tooth  and  the 
eye,  he  was  a  good  man  and  had  a  large  property. 

Amos.     What  became  of  him  ? 

Aunt  Hester.  Why  he  just  went  on  until  he  died.  But 
a  curious  thing  occurred  one  day  after  I  refused  him.  My 
refusal  seemed  to  have  soured  his  temper,  and,  in  an  alterca- 
tion with  the  sheriff,  he  used  some  inflammatory  language, 
and  the  sheriff  struck  him  on  the  head  with  a  poker. 
That  blow  knocked  out  the  blue  tooth  and  straightened 
his  eye. 

Amos.     You  should  have  accepted  him  then. 

Aunt  Hester.  He  did  n't  propose  again.  I  do  n't  be- 
lieve I  would  have  had  him  anyway.  He  had  n't  much 
hair,  but  a  large  property.  I  was  a  gay,  giddy  young 
thing  then,  Amos.  You  would  scarcely  believe  it  now, 
would  you,  Amos  ? 

Amos.  I  do  n't  know  about  being  gay  and  giddy,  but 
my  earliest  recollections  are  hearing  of  the  beauty,  accom- 
plishments and  fascinations  of  Miss  Hester  Barr. 


Lost  and  Won.  137 

Aunt  Hester.  Dear  me,  dear  me  !  Now,  Amos,  that 
is  very  kind  of  you.  Now,  I  venture  to  say  that,  looking 
at  my  old  face,  you  would  n't  believe  such  stories.  Now, 
would  you  ? 

Enter  SERGEANT  BANGS. 

Bangs.     (Saluting.}     Madam. 

Aunt  Hester.     Same  to  you,  Sir. 

Bangs.  Colonel  Lacy's  compliments.  Will  be  pleased 
to  call  on  Miss  Barr  this  morning,  if  agreeable. 

Aunt  Hester.  Say,  Sergeant,  Miss  Barr  will  be  pleased 
to  see  the  Colonel.  (Sergeant  salutes  and  exits.)  Amos, 
that  absurd  creature  is  no  better  than  a  stick.  But  I  must 
inform  Bessie.  (Enters  house.} 

Amos.  Bessie,  I  love  the  ground  she  walks  on;  the 
flower  she  looks  at ;  the  very  air  she  breathes.  There  's 
music  in  the  rustle  of  her  dress  and  heaven  in  her  voice, 
and  I  dare  not  breathe  to  her  a  word  of  this.  A  poor 
devil  of  a  cripple;  a  mechanic,  looking  up  to  such  an 
angel. 

Enter  BESSIE  from  house. 

Bessie.  Why,  Amos,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you !  I 
hurried  out  to  thank  you  for  that  beautiful  little  workstand. 
But  you  must  not  do  those  things,  Amos.  It  is  not  right. 
I  fear  you  can  not  afford  it. 

Amos.  (Aside.}  She  little  dreams  that  I  lived  on  one 
meal  a  day  that  I  might  make  it.  (Aloud.)  Oh,  that's 

12 


138  Lost  and  Won. 

nothing,  Miss  Bessie.  Would  to  God  I  could  do  more — 
to  show  my  gratitude  to  your  father. 

Bessie.  You  exaggerate  that  service,  Amos,  and  I 
can  not  permit  you  to  be  impoverishing  yourself  for  our 
benefit.  I  am  so  sorry,  Amos  (hesitating) — 

Amos.     For  what,  Miss  Bessie  ? 

Bessie.  That  you  selected  such  a  hard  calling  through 
•which  to  make  a  living.  Why  could  n't  you  take  a  pro- 
fession— say  a  lawyer  or  doctor.  You  are  a  man  of  edu- 
cation— a  gentleman,  Amos.  Why,  we  looked  on  you  as 
one  of  the  family. 

Amos.  I  had  no  choice.  A  profession  means  years  of 
study  and  years  of  waiting.  I  had  to  find  immediate  sup- 
port not  only  for  myself  but  one  I  loved. 

Bessie.  You  love  some  one,  Amos?  Tell  me  all 
about  it. 

Amos.  There  is  not  much  to  tell  and  I  lack  the  words 
to  tell  it.  I  worship  one  so  far  above  me  that  it  is  profana- 
tion to  breathe  her  name  in  that  connection.  Oh,  Bessie 
I  have  no  hope  but  in  her  heart ;  no  heaven  but  her  love. 
And,  yet,  I  dare  not  tell  her  this. 

Bessie.  Why  not,  Amos  ?  There  is  no  altar,  however 
lowly,  that  may  not  send  its  incense  up  and  be  grateful, 
let  the  deity  be  ever  so  high. 

Amos.     That  is  all  very  well  in  poetry.     But,  when  it 


Lost  and  Won.  139 

comes  to  real  life,  the  love  of  a  crippled  mechanic  offered 
to  a  lady  is  an  insult. 

Bessie.  In  old  Virginia  that  was  the  condition.  But 
here,  Amos,  where  it  is  claimed  that  all  honest  labor  is 
honorable,  it  must  be  different,  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
my  foster  brother,  this  adversity  in  which  we  are  plunged 
has  taught  me  lessons. 

Amos.  (Eagerly.)  And  could  you  listen  to  a  suit  from 
such  a  source — a  suit  from  a  " greasy  mechanic,"  a  "mud- 
sill," as  we  call  them  ? 

Bessie.  (After  a  pause.)  I  do  n't  know.  I  fear  not. 
You  see  training  and  early  prejudices  get  to  be  a  second 
nature — much  would  depend  on  the  oleaginous  individual 
himself.  Now,  if  he  were  like  you,  my  brother — 

Amos.     Like  me.     Oh,  Bessie ! 

Enter  COLONEL  LACY. 

Lacy.  A  pleasant  morning  to  you  both.  Miss  Barr, 
you  add  sunlight  to  the  house  and  fragrance  to  the  garden. 
I  am  only  happy  when  I  bask  in  both. 

Bessie.  Colonel  Lacy,  you  shame  me  with  such 
speeches. 

Lacy.  Because  your  modesty  adds  grace  to  your 
loveliness.  By  the  by,  Amos,  I  was  about  to  send  for 
you.  I  have  some  work  in  your  line  I  wish  to  consult  you 
about.  Can  you  not  come  to  my  house  on  your  return  to 
the  city? 


140  Lost  and  Won. 

Amos.     With  pleasure.     Now,  I  will  see  Mr.  Barr. 

Bessie.  Do  so,  Amos,  you  will  find  him  in  our  little 
breakfast  room. 

Amos.  (Aside.}  She  smiles  upon  my  superior  officer, 
of  course,  and  yet  I  came  near  telling  her  all.  (Exit.} 

Lacy.  Now,  my  dear  Bessie,  have  you  thought  on 
what  I  proposed  when  last  we  met  ? 

Bessie.  Thought  and  thought,  until  it  seemed  as  if  I 
would  go  wild.  I  can  not  yet  see  my  way  clear. 

Lacy.  Were  you  to  follow  your  loving  little  heart, 
would  it  not  lead  you  out  ? 

Bessie.  That  is  precisely  where  I  fail.  My  loving 
little  heart,  as  you  call  it,  will  not  move.  My  poor  head 
has  to  work  alone. 

Lacy.     You  can  not  love  me — not  the  heart. 

Bessie.  (Shaking  her  head.}  Colonel  Lacy,  I  like 
you,  I  respect  you,  but  all  the  love  my  heart  can  give  is 
absorbed  by  my  father — my  poor  old  father. 

Lacy.  Therein  lies  my  hope.  In  marrying  you,  my 
beautiful  girl,  I  not  only  lift  all  care  from  his  troubled 
heart,  but  place  him  in  the  ease  to  which  his  age  and 
honors  entitle  him. 

Bessie.  It  is  very  tempting,  Colonel  Lacy.  We  are 
very,  very  poor,  and  while  I,  young  and  strong,  can  bear 
this  want,  it  is  carrying  his  bent  form  and  gray  hairs  in 


Lost  and  Won.  141 

sorrow  to  the  grave.  Oh,  I  could  say,  take  me,  take  me, 
and  help  my  father.  But — 

Lacy.     What,  my  love  ? 

Bessie.  I  fear  you  can  not  gain  his  consent,  and  I 
can  not  wed  without  that. 

Lacy.     Have  you  spoken  to  him  ? 

Bessie.  Dear  me,  no.  But,  observing  your  attentions, 
he  has  dropped  words  from  time  to  time  that  indicate  any- 
thing but  favor. 

Lacy.  Of  course,  my  darling.  You  are  as  sacred  in 
his  eyes  as  you  are  in  mine.  He  has  been  looking  into 
my  life  and  finds  it  shocking. 

Bessie.     And  have  you  been  so  bad  ? 

Lacy.  Too  bad  for  such  an  angel  as  you  are.  But  a 
chance  should  be  given — it  is  given  for  reformation.  Do 
you  remember  that  beautiful  passage  in  Holy  Writ  where 
the  blind  cripple  heard  the  Savior  passing  and  cried  out 
to  be  taken  to  him  ?  To  every  man  once  in  his  life  the 
Savior  passes.  I  see  mine  going  by.  Ah,  my  love,  you 
hold  in  the  hollow  of  your  little  hand  my  better  destiny. 
Turn  from  me  and  I  am  lost. 

Bessie.     I  do  like  you.     I  believe  in  you.     I — 

Lacy.     Your  father  comes.     May  I  address  him  now  ? 

Bessie.     Oh,  no,  not  now.     Wait.     I  am  so  confused. 

Lacy.     Walk  this  way  and  think  of  it.     {Exeunt.} 


142  Lost  and  Won. 

Enter  HAMILTON  BARR  and  AMOS. 
Barr.  I  am  glad  to  hear  of  some  response  to  my  offer 
of  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  reward  for  a  clue  to  that 
lost  money.  I  can  not  and  will  not  give  up  the  hope  of 
regaining  at  least  some  of  it.  A  part  of  those  securities 
were  numbered  and  recorded.  They  have  never  been 
used,  for  they  may  be  traced. 

Amos.  I  got  this  note  through  the  post.  It  hints  at 
some  information.  See.  (Reads.)  "  If  Mr.  Amos  Adze 
will  grant  an  interview  with  the  undersigned,  he  will  learn 
something  of  the  lost  property  for  which  Mr.  Hamilton 
Barr  offers  a  reward  of  twenty-five  thousand  dollars.  Beck- 
with,  detective  No.  10,  etc."  I  answered,  asking  him  to 
come  here  this  morning.  He  ought  to  have  reported  ere  this. 

Enter  SCHACK. 

Schack.  Dar  is  a  genelman  at  de  doar  askin'  foh  Mr. 
Amos  Adze,  sah. 

Barr.     Tell  him  to  walk  this  way. 

Schack.     Yes,  sah. 

Barr.  Bless,  my  soul,  Amos,  I  am  getting  old  and 
dim-sighted,  but  that  man  approaching  is — 

Amos.  Your  former  overseer,  Buckthorn.  What  can 
he  want  ? 

Barr.     No  good.     I  always  detested  him,  and  have 


Lost  and  Won.  143 

had  for  some  unknown  reason  suspicion  that  he  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  that  theft. 

Enter  BUCKTHORN. 

Buckthorn.  Morning,  gentlemen.  You  seem  surprised 
to  see  me  and  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  both  at  last. 

Barr.  (Stiffly.}  Well,  sir,  and  what  can  I  do  for 
you? 

Buckthorn.  It  is  n't  what  you  can  do  for  me,  but  what 
I  can  do  for  you,  that  brought  me  here.  I  am  Beckwith, 
detective. 

Barr.     We  know  you  as  Buckthorn,  overseer. 

Buckthorn.  I  took  that  name  when  I  entered  that 
business. 

Barr.     Ashamed  of  the  old  one  ? 

Buckthorn.  No,  sir;  on  the  contrary,  too  proud  of  it. 
I  am  of  a  good  English  family,  sir,  fallen  into  decay,  and 
when  I  stooped  to  such  a  degradation  as  that  of  overseer, 
I  left  the  name  behind. 

Barr.  The  man  who  seeks  to  save  a  name  while  de- 
grading himself,  lets  go  the  substance  that  he  may  cling  to 
a  shadow.  But  what  is  your  business  with  us? 

Buckthorn.  You  lost  a  large  sum  of  money  on  the 
occupation  of  your  place  by  the  Union  army.  You  offer 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars  reward  for  its  recovery. 

Barr,     True. 


144  Lost  and  Won. 

Buckthorn.     I  believe  I  have  a  clue. 

Barr.     What  is  it  ? 

Buckthorn.  On  that  night  I  happened  near  the  old 
tomb  where  the  money  was  concealed,  and  I  saw  a  man 
in  the  uniform  of  a  Federal  officer  coming  from  it,  and, 
as  the  door  was  forced  open,  I  naturally  concluded  that 
he  was  the  thief. 

Barr.  And  in  all  these  years  you  have  not  communi- 
cated these  facts  to  me ! 

Buckthorn.  I  did  not  know  of  the  loss,  and,  when  I 
did  hear  of  it,  I  could  not  find  you. 

Barr.  True,  I  came  North  to  realize  on  a  small  prop- 
erty left  my  child  by  a  relative.  And  this  man  ? 

Buckthorn.  Was  and  is  a  stranger  to  me.  I  have 
never  seen  him  since. 

Barr.  Well,  I  must  say  Mr.  Buckthorn,  or  Beckwith, 
this  is  a  very  dim  clue.  Among  the  million  of  men  mak- 
ing up  that  army  one  man  is  the  needle  in  a  hay-stack. 
The  fellow  may  have  been  killed. 

Buckthorn.  He  did  not  take  all  that  money  with  him 
to  another  world.  But  you  may  be  sure  he  is  alive.  No 
heirs  would  guard  the  plunder  as  he  is  doing. 

Barr.  That  is  a  shrewd  surmise,  for  some  of  the  lost 
valuables  were  in  English  securities,  numbered  and  re- 
corded. On  that  I  base  my  hopes.  What  do  you  propose 
doing  ? 


Lost  and  Won.  145 

Buckthorn.  I  thought  if  Mr.  Adze  here,  who  joined 
the  Federal  forces  that  night,  could  give  the  number  and 
name  of  that  regiment  which  first  arrived,  I  could  proba- 
bly find  my  man.  I  would  know  him  were  I  to  meet  him 
again. 

Barr.     How  about  that,  Amos  ? 

Amos.  I  fear  it  would  be  of  small  service.  The  first 
brigade  that  made  the  crossing  pushed  on.  I  suppose, 
however,  we  can  find  by  earnest  search  what  Beckwith 
needs.  You  have  a  diary  I  kept  of  my  life  in  the  army 
that  I  bound  and  presented  Miss  Bessie.  There  may  be 
some  dates  of  use  in  it. 

Barr.  I  know  that  book.  It  is  on  my  table.  Go 
with  him,  Amos,  and  search  for  what  we  need. 

AMOS  and  BECKWITH  enter  house ;  enter  LACY  and  BESSIE. 

Bessie.  (To  LACY.)  He  looks  angry  and  troubled. 
Had  you  not  better  postpone  ? 

Lacy.  No,  now  is  my  opportunity.  (BESSIE  enters 
house.}  Good  morning,  Mr.  Barr, 

Barr.     (Coldly.)     Good  morning,  sir. 

Lacy.  I  am  glad  to  find  you  alone.  I  have  a  delicate 
matter  to  communicate  of  vital  importance  to  me. 

Barr.     Well,  sir? 

Lacy.  You  have  doubtlessly  observed  my  attachment 
for  your  lovely  daughter. 


146  Lost  and  Won. 

Barr.     I  have  observed  your  attentions,  sir. 

Lacy.  I  am  deeply  attached  and  I  have  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  it  is  not  unpleasant  to  her. 

Barr.  Colonel  Lacy,  have  you  dared  to  approach  my 
daughter  as  a  suitor  for  her  hand  ? 

Lacy.     I  have. 

Barr.  I  am  amazed !  I  am  indignant,  sir,  that  you 
dare  commit  such  an  outrage. 

Lacy.  I  can  not  see  wherein  an  honorable  offer  of 
marriage  is  such  an  offense. 

Barr.  Colonel  Lacy,  your  offer  is  not  honorable.  It 
is  not  the  act  of  a  gentleman. 

Lacy.  Mr.  Barr,  is  it  necessary  to  couch  your  refusal 
in  an  insult  ? 

Barr.     The  insult  is  in  the  offer,  sir. 

Lacy.     I  really  can  not  comprehend — 

Barr.  You  are  dull,  sir,  or  very  designing.  I  have 
but  one  child,  Colonel  Lacy.  My  noble  boy  sleeps  at  An- 
tietam  in  an  unmarked  grave.  All  I  have  to  cling  to  in 
life  is  this  poor  girl.  I  could  not  see  you  so  obviously  at- 
tentive without  inquiring  as  to  your  life,  character  and  con- 
duct. I  have  learned  enough  to  shut  my  humble  door  in 
your  face. 

Lacy.     May  I  beg  to  know — 

Barr.  This  is  intolerable.  You  have  a  wife  living — 
a  wife  you  are  ashamed  of — 


Lost  and  Won.  147 

Lacy.  That  is  all  wrong.  I  have  no  wife — 
Barr.  So  much  the  worse  for  you.  Enough  of  this ! 
I  am  an  old  man,  hardly  knowing  from  whence  our  next 
meal  is  to  come,  but  I  would  rather  see  my  daughter  in 
some  man's  kitchen,  or  wearing  her  life  out  sewing  in  a 
garret,  than  put  her  pure  soul  in  the  keeping  of  your  pol- 
luted hands.  You  have  my  answer,  sir. 

Enter  AMOS  and  BUCKTHORN  from  house. 

Amos.     He  got  no  clue. 

Buckthorn.  (Aside,  seeing  LACY.)  By  the  Lord,  here 
is  our  man!  (Aloud.)  But  I  have.  (LACY,  turning  sees 
BUCKTHORN,  and  starts  back.)  How  are  you,  Captain  ?  It 
is  sometime  since  we  met.  (To  COLONEL  LACY.)  Keep 
cool,  Captain.  I  am  silent  as  the  tomb. 

Barr.     You  know  this  man  ? 

Buckthorn.  (Significantly.)  I  know  him!  Yes,  and 
what 's  more  important,  he  knows  me.  We  know  each 
other.  (Attempts  to  lay  his  hand  on  LACY'S  shoulder  in  a 
familiar  manner?) 

Lacy.  Off,  you  scoundrel !  (Hurls  BUCKTHORN  to  the 
floor. 

CURTAIN. 


148  Lost  and  Vl^on. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE:  Lawn  in  front  of  Lacy's  house.  Across  the  stage 
back  runs  a  wall  with  door  in  it.  Wall  just  high  enough  to 
show  the  tops  of  horses'  heads.  House,  with  fancy  entrance,  to 
the  right.  Rustic  tables,  chairs,  settees,  etc. 


Enter  SCHACK  with  sack  coat  on ;  pushes  a  chicken  in  and 
steals  across. 

Schack.  Now,  ef  I  kin  git  past  dis  house  widout  ob- 
servation, I  'se  all  right.  Got  a  truly  good  lay  out  dis 
time.  (Enter  LACY  and  AMOS  from  house. )  Lor  a  mity, 
heah  de  'prietor  hisself. 

Lacy.     Hello,  uncle  Schack,  how  are  you  ? 

Schack.  (Edging  off.)  I 'se  purty  well,  tank  'ee, 
sah. 

Lacy.  How  are  they  at  the  cottage?  Come  nearer, 
man. 

Schack.  Ya,  ha,  take  care,  sah.  I'se  got  small-pox 
in  my  clos',  sah.  Yah,  yah. 

Lacy.  Yes,  we  heard  that  joke.  Come,  that  laugh 
was  worth  a  dollar.  There  it  is,  Schack. 

Shack.  Oh,  tank 'ee,  sah,  tank  'ee.  You's  mity  good 
to  ole  Schack,  you  is. 

Lacy.  Why,  Uncle  Schack,  you  seem  to  be  loaded 
down  with  live  stock.  How  's  this? 

Schack.     Yes,  sah;  yes,  sah;  was  down  to  de  village, 


Lost  and  Won.  149 

sah;  seed  some  nice  fowls  and  eggs,  sah;  jis  buy  'em  an' 
put  'em  in  dese  big  pockets. 

Lacy.  Let  me  see  what  kind  of  a  bargain  you  were 
up  to,  Uncle  Schack?  (Puts  his  hand  in  SchacKs  pocket.) 

Schack.  (Aside.)  Oh,  de  Lawd  !  I 'se  a  gone  coon 
now,  shu  nuff. 

Lacy.  (Pulling  out  chicken)  Why,  Schack,  you  cer- 
tainly are  not  so  extravagant  as  to  buy  fancy  fowls  for  the 
table.  How  many  have  you  got  of  these,  now? 

Schack.     Jis  foh,  sah ;  jis  foh,  sah. 

Lacy.  Well,  I  can't  have  such  lovely  birds  sacrificed 
in  this  manner.  Now,  Uncle  Schack,  I  will  buy  them  of 
you.  Now,  what  do  you  value  the  fowls  at? 

Schack.  Well,  sah,  if  dey  was  de  common  sort,  I 
'spose  dey  was  worf  fifty  cents  a  pair,  but  de  fancy  breed, 
sah,  as  you  say,  is  valuable.  Say  foh  dollars  for  de  lot. 

Lacy.  All  right.  There,  I  make  it  five.  Drop  them 
in  the  stable  yard  as  you  go  along. 

Schack.  All  right,  sah.  I  say,  I  forgot.  Miss  Bessie 
say  in  answer  to  yer  note  she  and  her  aunt  Hester  walk 
ober  dis  arternoon. 

Lacy.  Thank  you.  There 's  a  gold  piece  for  you, 
Schack. 

Schack.  Thank  'ee,  sah.  (Aside.)  I  dun  sole  him 
his  own  chickens.  Fore  de  Lawd,  but  I  did  perspire. 
(Exit) 


150  Lost  and  Won. 

Lacy.  That  poor  old  man  goes  about  at  the  risk  of 
his  life  appropriating  poultry  for  this  arrogant  old  Vir- 
ginian's table.  I  wonder  if  he  does  not  suspect. 

Amos.     He  is  too  much  lost  in  his  own  miseries. 

Lacy.  That  is  true,  and  too  proud  and  stubborn  to 
permit  any  one  to  aid  him.  You  understand,  Amos, 
what  I  want  done  within,  and,  to  accomplish  it,  am  will- 
ing to  expend  liberally. 

Amos.  The  house  seems  perfect  to  my  eyes  as  it 
stands,  and  it  seems  a  pity  to  pull  down  and  rebuild. 

Lacy.  It  was  constructed  before  the  esthetic  craze 
took  possession  of  our  people.  We  had  an  order  of 
architecture,  peculiarly  American,  we  called  the  comfort- 
able. Now,  flat,  Japanese  barbarism  is  grafted  on  early 
English  crudity,  and  what  with  lilies,  storks,  sunflowers, 
and  peacock  tails,  spindle-shanked  chairs  and  tables,  we 
are  esthetic  as  monkeys  in  purple  and  fine  linen,  and 
about  as  miserable. 

Amos.     Why  give  into  it,  Colonel  ? 

Lacy.  You  might  as  well  expect  a  fish  to  live  out  of 
water  as  for  one  to  reside  inside  society  and  override  its 
whims.  No,  Amos,  go  at  it.  Employ  men;  knock  down; 
tear  out,  and  build  up.  You  can't  go  amiss,  for  the  more 
errors  you  make  the  more  esthetic  we  shall  appear. 

Amos.  All  right,  Colonel.  Your  orders  shall  be 
obeyed. 


Lost  and  Won.  151 

Enter  BANG. 

Bang.     {Saluting.)     Colonel. 

Lacy.     Sergeant  Bang. 

Bang.  I  have  to  report,  a  hard  looking  party  outside 
asks  entrance. 

Lacy.     Who? 

Bang.     Name,  sir.     (Hands  card.) 

Lacy.  (Reads.)  "  Beckwith,  Detective."  Show 
the  man  in.  (Bang  salutes  and  exits.)  Now,  for  a  scene 
with  my  confederate,  a  hard  customer,  with  iniquity  fairly 
enameled  on  his  ugly  face;  one  of  those  fellows  at  war 
with  the  world,  possessed  of  enough  courage  and  cunning 
to  keep  him  in  trouble  all  the  time.  And  I  made  this 
scoundrel  my  equal  and  partner.  (Enter  BUCKTHORN.) 
Well,  Mr.  Beckwith,  have  you  come  to  apologize? 

Buckthorn.     For  being  knocked  down  ? 

Lacy.    No,  for  provoking  that  breach  of  good  manners  ? 

Buckthorn.  You  do  n't  remember ;  you  do  n't  recog- 
nize me. 

Lacy.  To  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and  belief  I 
never  saw  your  intellectual  countenance  before,  and,  Mr. 
Beckwith,  I  can  assure  you  that  I  have  no  wish  ever  to 
see  it  again. 

Buckthorn.  Oh,  very  likely.  (Seating  himself  on  table) . 
I  have  no  question  but  you  would  feel  more  comfortable 
if  I  were  non  est. 


152  Lost  and  Won. 

Lacy.  Now,  listen  to  me,  Mr.  Beckwith,  detective, 
and  pay  attention  to  what  I  say,  for  it  will  not  be  repeated. 
If  you  do  n't  drop  that  offensive,  familiar  manner,  you 
will  not  only  be  knocked  down,  but  kicked  off  this  place. 
It  is  some  distance  from  here  to  the  road.  Get  off  that 
table  and  try  to  behave  like  a  respectable  man — I  won't 
say  gentleman.  That  is  impossible. 

Buckthorn.  (Getting  off  table.}  Oh,  you  're  a  cool 
one. 

Lacy.  There  it  is  again.  I  am  not  solicitous  to 
know  your  opinion  of  me. 

Buckthorn.     Should  think  not. 

Lacy.  Once  for  all,  will  you  drop  that,  or  shall  I 
have  you  kicked  off  the  place? 

Buckthorn.  As  you  will,  Captain  Lacy.  I  will  not 
quarrel  with  you,  if  I  can  help  it,  Captain  Lacy. 

Lacy.  I  am  not  Captain  Lacy.  I  left  the  army  a 
Colonel  and  Brigadier-General  by  brevet.  I  care  nothing 
for  my  title ;  but,  since  you  put  such  stress  on  it,  you  may 
as  well  have  it  correctly. 

Buckthorn.  You  were  a  Captain  once,  when  the 
Union  army  forced  a  crossing  at  Barr's  ferry. 

Lacy.  I  could  not  well  be  promoted  else.  Why 
Barr's  ferry  ? 

Buckthorn.  There  was  a  strange  affair  occurred  there. 
I  was  overseer  upon  the  place  of  the  old  gentleman,  then 


Lost  and  Won.  153 

very  wealthy,  now  poor  and  your  tenant.  On  the  night 
of  the  occupation  this  old  man  hid  all  that  was  his  in  the 
world  in  the  family  vault  and  that  night  the  vault  was 
opened  and  the  money  stolen. 

Lacy.  I  have  heard  that  story  before.  It  is  not  in- 
teresting through  its  novelty. 

Buckthorn.  Perhaps  I  can  make  it  more  so.  There 
There  was  a  poor  man,  somewhat  down  in  the  world, 
living  in  that  locality,  who  saw  the  valuables  hidden  and 
found  a  Union  officer  ready  to  dig  them  up,  and  who  did 
dig  and  walk  off  with  same. 

Lacy.     Well,  sir? 

Buckthorn.     I  saw  all  this  done. 

Lacy.     And  you  dare  insinuate — 

Buckthorn.  Oh,  no,  Colonel  Lacy.  I  did  that  once 
and  got  knocked  down.  No  danger  of  my  repeating  the 
experiment.  Your  resemblance  to  that  officer  was  so 
striking,  that  I  for  a  moment  forgot  myself. 

Lacy.     Do  n't  repeat  the  offense,  then. 

Buckthorn.     There  is  another  strange  resemblance. 

Lacy.     What  is  it? 

Buckthorn.  Not  willing  to  let  the  Captain  off,  who 
had  so  suddenly  grown  rich,  I  lingered  round  the  tomb, 
and  saw  my  Captain  joined  by  a  woman — right  pretty 
woman  she  was  in  the  bright  light  of  burning  stores. 
Her  face  impressed  me. 


154  Lost  and  Won. 

Lacy.     Well,  proceed. 

Buckthorn.  The  other  day,  in  my  capacity  of  detec- 
tive, I  was  employed  by  Shyster  &  Gripp,  divorce  lawyers, 
to  work  up  the  case  of  Lacy  against  Lacy,  for  an 
Indiana  court.  It  was  no  easy  job,  for  Mrs.  Lacy  knew 
what  she  was  about  in  her  little  pranks,  and  I  had  to  find 
good  witnesses  to  swear  to  what  we  knew  but  could  n't 
prove.  Do  you  know,  Colonel,  that  a  case  against  a  good 
woman  who  is  a  little  imprudent  is  always  easier  than 
against  a  guilty  one  ?  You  see,  the  guilty  one  covers  her 
track. 

Lacy.     Enough  of  this.     Go  on  with  your  story. 

Buckthorn.  It  makes  a  very  material  part  of  it.  We 
got  the  divorce.  Shyster  &  Gripp  requested  me,  as  I  was 
coming  this  way,  to  give  you  a  certified  copy  of  the 
decree  freeing  you  from  the  late  Mrs.  Lacy. 

Lacy.  Thanks.  But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  the 
lost  money  of  Mr.  Hamilton  Barr? 

Buckthorn.     That  is  what  I  am  trying  to  discover. 

Lacy.     Well,  I  can't  aid  you  in  that. 

Buckthorn.  Do  n't  believe  you  will.  You  see,  Col- 
onel, I  did  not  know  Mrs.  Lacy  when  I  was  employed, 
but  it  was  necessary  that  I  should  know  her,  and,  when  I 
came  to  see  her,  I  was  struck — I  assure  you  I  was  struck 
— I  knew  that  face,  and  yet,  I  could  not  place  it. 

Lacv.     Well. 


Lost  and  Won.  155 

Buckthorn.  Why,  Colonel,  fancy  plays  such  odd  tricks 
with  a  man,  he  isn't  safe.  I  thought  you  resembled  my 
Union  officer,  and  now  your  late  wife  seems  to  be  that 
identical  woman. 

Lacy.  And  you  return  by  another  road  to  that  in- 
famous charge.  You  dare  assert — 

Buckthorn.  Oh,  no,  Colonel.  I  know  I  must  be 
mistaken.  A  gentleman  of  your  high  position  could 
never  stoop  to  such  a  theft,  and  then  keep  the  poor  eld 
man  and  his  starving  family  hanging  on  the  little  end  of 
desperation.  I  ask  your  pardon.  I  must  be  crazy.  I 
will  at  once  set  myself  free  of  the  delusion  by  asking  the 
late  Mrs.  Lacy.  She  won't  like  you  or  me  much  after 
what  we  have  done  to  her,  but  I  guess  she  '11  blurt  out  the 
truth. 

Lacy.  Mr. — What  is  the  name?  (Looking  at  card.) 
Beckwith,  detective,  you  have  executed  your  business 
here.  Now,  there  is  the  avenue  to  the  road  and  the  road 
to  the  station.  The  sooner  you  start  and  the  more  rapidly 
you  travel  the  better  for  all  parties. 

Buckthorn.  Thank  you,  Colonel;  thank  you.  If  you 
should  ever  want  me,  my  address  is  on  the  card. 

Lacy.  I  shall  never  need  you;  the  police  may. 
(Buckthorn  starts.)  Now,  go.  (Exit  BUCKTHORN).  I 
am  running  close  upon  a  lee  shore.  The  word  of  that 
fellow  is  not  worth  heeding,  but  supplemented  by  Helen's 


156  Lost  and  Won. 

would  be  ruin.     Nothing  can  save  me  but  an  immediate- 
elopement  and  marriage  with  Bessie,  the  little  angel. 
(Enter  BANG,  followed  by  BESSIE  and  AUNT  HESTER.) 

Bang.     Colonel. 

Lacy.     Sergeant. 

Bang.     The  ladies. 

Lacy.  Show  Miss  Hester  the  grounds  and  gather  a 
bouquet  from  the  conservatory,  Sergeant,  while  I  enter- 
tain Miss  Barr. 

Bang.     All  right,  Colonel.     Orders  from  headquarters, 
Miss. 

Aunt  Hester.     Which  I  am  supposed  to  obey  ? 
Bang.     Regulations,  Miss.     (Exit  with  Aunt  Hester.} 

Lacy.  It  was  very  good  of  you,  my  love,. to  accord 
me  this  interview.  It  may  be  our  last. 

Bessie.     Our  last? 

Lacy.  I  made  my  humble  appeal  to  your  father  this 
morning,  and  had  it  met  with  a  refusal  couched  in  an 
insult,  so  grave  that  I  can  not  approach  him  again. 

Bessie.  My  father?  I  can't  comprehend.  I  can  un- 
derstand why  he  should  skrink  from  parting  with  me,  his 
only  child,  but  why  he  should  insult  you  is  strange. 

Lacy.  Not  when  you  are  possessed  of  the  facts. 
Your  father  was  right  in  his  refusal,  and  it  does  not  lie  in 
my  mouth  to  complain  of  the  insult. 


Lost  and  Won.  157 

Bessie.     And  why  ? 

Lacy.  Because  it  was  and  is  deserved.  I  am  all  un- 
worthy of  you,  "my  angel.  The  man  who  offers  you  a 
home  should  be  above  reproach,  and  that  home  should  be 
as  pure  as  heaven. 

Bessie.     Are  you  so  wicked,  Edmund. 

Lacy.  I  never  knew  how  wicked  until  I  read  it  by 
the  light  of  your  innocent  love.  I  knew  that  part  of  the 
dark  story  would  be  told  you,  and  I  could  not  bear  to 
have  it  come  from  hostile  lips  that  would  make  it  darker 
than  it  is.  I  asked  to  see  you  that  I  might  confess  all, 
plead  forgiveness,  and  go  my  way  to  poverty  and  shame 
with  the  one  comfort  of  your  forgiveness. 

Bessie.     Poverty  and  shame  ? 

Lacy.  Yes,  for  I  must  make  restitution,  and  that 
leaves  me  poor  indeed,  for  it  robs  me  not  only  of  wealth, 
but  a  good  name. 

Bessie.  You  shall  not  do  this.  Surely  repentance 
need  not  be  accompanied  with  such  a  penalty. 

Lacy.  It  needs  full  restitution,  and  if  in  the  confes- 
sion I  can  save  myself  from  your  contempt,  it  is  all  I  ask. 

Bessie.  I  will  not  hear  it.  You  have  given  me  your 
love,  and,  in  so  doing,  prohibited  my  being  your  judge. 
Let  me  deal  frankly  [with  you  as  you  seek  to  deal  with  me. 
I  do  not  love  you.  I  do  n't  know  how  to  express  myself 
— I  like  you;  I  respect  your  every  act.  Your  every 


158  Lost  and  Won. 

word  deepens  that  respect  until  I  am  willing  to  trust  my  all 
to  your  keeping,  and,  I  am  ashamed  to  say  it,  I  lift  my  poor 
old  father  in  doing  so  from  the  distress  that  is  killing  him. 

Lacy.     You  force  me,  dear  girl,  to  tell  you  all. 

Bessie.  Oh,  no.  Let  the  dead  past  rest  in  its  grave. 
I  accept  your  present;  I  trust  your  future. 

Lacy.  You  can  not  accept  or  trust  until  I  tell  you  all, 
for  the  dead  past  will  not  down.  The  gaunt  apparition 
will  leave  the  altar  at  your  side  and  come  between  when 
too  late  for  any  exorcism  of  mine. 

Bessie.  As  you  will.  (Seats  herself;  LACY  walks  to 
and  fro  agitated.) 

Lacy.  The  night  of  the  occupation  of  your  dear  old 
home  in  Virginia  your  father  lost,  through  a  vile  theft,  all 
he  possessed  on  earth. 

Bessie.     I  know. 

Lacy.     I  am  that  thief. 

Bessie.     (Starting  ///.)     Edmund  Lacy ! 

Lacy.  Hear  me.  Your  father's  overseer  led  me  to  the 
spot;  dug  up  and  gave  me  the  money.  Up  to  that  mo- 
ment my  life  had  been  honest  and  honorable.  I  could  kill 
for  my  country,  I  thought;  I  could  not  plunder  for  my- 
self. The  temptation  was  too  great.  I  fell.  (She  sits 
again,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands.)  I  see  you  shrink 
in  shame.  It  is  my  punishment.  I  am  man  enough  yet 
to  bear  it.  It  is  my  worst. 


Lost  and  Won.  159 

Bessie.     This  is  horrible ! 

Lacy.  Years  after,  when  I  found  you  and  your  father 
stripped  to  want  through  my  sin,  I  strove  hard  to  com- 
promise my  iniquity  by  aiding  him.  Your  father's  stub- 
born pride  stood  in  the  way.  I  could  only  get  him  to  ac- 
cept the  little  cottage  on  this  place  at  a  nominal  rent.  I 
saw  you ;  I  loved  you. 

Bessie.  Why  not,  through  that  love,  make  restitution 
without  this  horrible  confession  ? 

Lacy.  I  had  made  that  impossible.  Hear  me  out. 
The  worst  is  yet  to  come.  A  girl,  a  camp  follower,  wit- 
nessed my  crime.  To  close  her  mouth,  I  made  her  my 
wife. 

Bessie.  (Starting  up.)  And  you  dared  add  insult  to 
injury  by  offering  me  your  hand — 

Lacy.  Ah,  no.  This  woman  freed  herself  of  the  re- 
straint that  marriage  imposed.  It  was  not  until  I  was  free 
of  her  that  I  ventured  to  approach  you.  The  grave, 
indignant  face  of  your  dear  father  awakened  me  to  the 
hopeless  folly  of  such  an  attempt. 

Bessie.     And  you  are  free  ? 

Lacy.  There  is  the  decree  granting  the  divorce.  I 
am  free  of  her,  but  I  am  not  free  to  approach  you. 

Bessie.     And  now  ? 

Lacy.  To-night  I  will  confess  to  your  dear  father  as  I 
have  confessed  to  you ;  return  him  all,  to  the  last  cent, 


160  Lost  and  Won. 

with  interest,  his  lost  property,  and  to-morrow  go  forth  a 
ruined  and  disgraced  man.  (After  a  pause?)  Miss  Barr, 
I  will  recall  your  companion  and  bid  you  good-bye. 

Bessie.  Not  yet.  Let  me  think.  This  revelation  has 
been  so  sudden,  so  terrible,  I  can  not  grasp  it.  Let  me 
consider  for  a  moment.  (After  a  pause.}  I  have  resolved, 
Edmund,  you  shall  not  do  this  thing.  I  can  not  consent 
to  such  a  sacrifice.  That  cruel  war  so  confused  all  sense 
of  right  and  wrong,  your  act  loses  half  its  evil.  You  are 
generous  in  your  offer  of  self-sacrifice,  and  if  my  little 
hand  can  save  you,  I  stretch  it  out  to  you. 

Lacy.  Bessie,  my  darling,  my  savior !  But  your 
father  will  never  consent  to  this. 

Bessie.  Yes,  if  we  wait  long  enough  to  win  his  ap- 
proval. 

Lacy.     There  is  too  much  peril  in  the  waiting. 

Bessie.     You  fear  me  ? 

Lacy.  Yes;  a  little  reflection — cooler  thought,  your 
very  self-respect  will  come  between  and  drive  us  apart. 
Ah,  my  darling,  better  never  to  have  tendered  the  hope, 
than  to  follow  it  with  disappointment.  I  could  have 
given  you  up  before.  I  can  not  now. 

Bessie.     What  would  you  ? 

Lacy.  Have  you  wed  and  win  approval  after.  I 
would  secure  you  past  all  doubt. 

Bessie.     Is  not  this  selfish  ? 


Lost  and  Won.  161 

Lacy.  Beyond  question,  selfish.  You  offer  life  to  a 
dying  man;  hope  to  the  condemned;  succor  to  one 
drowning,  and  I  grasp  the  little  hand  till  it  pains  you. 
Oh,  my  angel,  trust  me,  believe  in  me;  give  me  con- 
trol ! 

Bessie.     I  do;  I  will. 

Lacy.  To-night  your  father  visits  the  city  on  business 
that  will  detain  him  till  late.  I  will  come  to  the  cottage; 
take  you  to  my  carriage,  and  when  he  returns,  it  will  be 
to  find  us  man  and  wife. 

Bessie.  Poor  father;  but  it  is  for  his  good.  I  shall 
expect  you,  and  may  heaven  grant  that  I  shall  never 
regret  what  I  am  doing.  (Coach  Jwrn  heard  without.} 
What  is  that? 

Lacy.  Philip  Fitzpoodle  with  his  coach.  He  served 
notice  on  me  that  this  would  be  made  a  station  to-day, 
and  I  am  to  entertain  the  passengers. 

(Coach  drawn  by  four  horses  enters  back  of  wall.  The 
heads  of  horses  only  are  seen,  with  the  top  of  coach,  on  which 
are  seated  FITZPOODLE,  driving,  HELEN,  LORD  TOMNODDY, 
and  one,  two,  and  three  ladies;  also,  one,  two,  and  three 
gentlemen.} 

Fitzpoodle.     (From  box  of  coach}     Hillo,  the  house ! 

Lacy.  (Putting  on  apron  and  cap.}  Hillo,  the  coach! 
(Passengers  descend  as  LACY  goes  out  at  gate  as  waiter,  bowing 
to  them  in  old  style}  This  way,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  this 


1 62  Lost  and  Won. 

way;  you  are  welcome  to  Lacy  Lodge.     (As  they  enter 
BESSIE  goes  out,  HELEN  staring  at  her.) 

Fitzpoodle.  I  say,  Ned,  you  do  it  up  in  first  rate  style ; 
eh,  me  lawd? 

Tomnoddy.  Remarkably  correct,  you  know.  Gad, 
ye'd  think  him  keeper  of  a  beer  house;  you  would, 
indeed. 

Lacy.  Thanks;  be  seated,  ladies  and  gentlemen; 
what  shall  it  be — milk  or  champagne?  Don't  hesitate. 
Cost  about  the  same. 

Fitzpoodle.  I  say  iced  milk,  with  plenty  of  grog  and 
no  sugar,  is  good  for  a  hot  day. 

First  Gentleman.  More  milk  and  less  grog,  Fitz,  if 
you  're  going  to  drive.  Do  n't  want  another  excitement, 
by  Jove. 

Lacy.     What's  that? 

First  Gentleman.  Last  Wednesday  Fitz  got  too  much 
grog  aboard,  and,  tooling  through  the  park,  he  collided 
on  a  family  vehicle,  and  spilled  infant  Jacobs  along  for  a 
hundred  yards.  Then  the  police  got  after  us,  you  know, 
and  such  a  racket ;  just  tumbled  through,  and  got  fined  a 
hundred  a  piece  for  damages  and  violation  of  ordinance. 
Don't  want  any  more  of  that,  you  know,  in  mine. 

Fitzpoodle.  Can  tool  the  conveyince  through  all  drunk 
better  than  any  party  can  sober.  Hi '11  take  grog;  give 
the  ladies  champagne. 


Lost  and  Won.  163 

Helen.     Bother  your  slops;  give  me  a  glass  of  beer. 

First  Lady.     Me,  too. 

Second  Lady.     I  ditto. 

Third  Lady.     I  likewise. 

Helen.  Unanimous.  (BANG  and  servants  serve  refresh- 
ments^) 

Fitzpoodle.  Now,  let 's  have  a  little  turn  at  lawn  tennis 
while  the  stock  is  baiting;  then  on  into  town.  Come,  all 
of  you.  (Exeunt  all  save  LACY  and  HELEN.) 

Helen.     What  a  lot !     What  do  you  think  of  that  ? 

Lacy.  A  good  imitation  of  a  bad  original.  The  cad 
of  London  is  the  swell  of  New  York.  We  can  not  be 
original  even  in  our  folly.  Now,  Nell,  to  what  am  I  in- 
debted for  this  unexpected  pleasure  of  seeing  you  ? 

Helen.  To  a  judge  out  in  Indiana.  I  received  this 
morning  a  solemn  looking  document  that  informed  me 
that  the  partnership  heretofore  existing  between  one  Ed- 
mund Lacy  and  a  certain  Helen  Lacy  was  dissolved  on 
petition  of  plaintiff,  said  Edmund  Lacy.  Now,  Hub, 
that  was  mean. 

Lacy.     You  asked  a  separation  and  I  granted  it. 

Helen.     Correct. 

Lacy.  And  now  you  complain  that  I  make  all  this 
legal. 

Helen.  No,  I  don't.  I  complain  of  its  being  done 
so  hastily  and  without  my  knowledge. 


164  Lost  and  Won. 

Lacy.  And  would  your  knowledge  have  made  any 
difference  ? 

Helen.  Some  little.  You  stole  into  an  Indiana  court 
and  stuffed  the  chaste  ears  of  the  learned  judge  with  a 
pack  of  lies  respecting  my  virtuous  character. 

Lacy.     Correct. 

Helen.  I  was  about  to  save  you  all  that  trouble  and 
expense,  and  you  have  spoiled  my  little  scheme. 

Lacy.     Very  sorry. 

Helen.     No,  you  are  not.     But,  like  all  men,  you  have 
muddled  the  business  amazingly,  and  it  was  mean. 
Lacy.     How,  for  example. 

Helen.  Edmund,  late  husband,  the  only  thing  beside 
my  beauty  that  I  inherited  from  poor,  but  respected 
parents,  whoever  they  were,  was  a  faculty  for  keeping  my 
eyes  open.  With  them  open  I  have  seen  the  little  game 
you  are  playing  here. 

Lacy.     Indeed ! 

Helen.  Pshaw!  This  palatial  residence  on  the  Hud- 
son, the  little  cottage  attached,  the  pretty  little  Bessie 
Barr  in  one,  Edmund  Lacy,  late  husband  in  the  other. 
I  '11  bet  two  to  one,  and  no  takers,  that  the  sly  little 
puss  we  met  coming  in  was  the  inexpressive  she  going 
out. 

Lacy.     Well? 

Helen.    It  is  far  from  well.    You  wish  Mrs.  Lacy  No.  2, 


Lost  and  Won.  165 

young,  handsome,  and  another  and  a  final  look  to  the 
door  of  that  tomb  upon  the  James. 

Lacy.  And  why  should  I  seek  to  make  more  secure 
that  which  is  so  well  sealed  ? 

Helen.  Is  it  ?  Oh,  you  near-sighted  gentleman !  A 
quantity  of  those  securities  were  numbered  and  recorded. 
You  were  foolish  enough  to  hypothecate  them  in  the 
purchase  of  this  place,  A  reward  of  twenty-five  thousand 
dollars  is  offered,  and  a  description  of  the  missing  bonds 
given.  Secure  stealing  ?  You  make  me  smile.  I  could 
have  aided  you,  and  yet  you  spoil  my  little  game  by 
throwing  me  over  through  an  Indiana  court,  getting  a  lot 
of  rascals  to  swear  to  a  lot  of  lies.  I  was  about  to  save 
you  that,  too. 

Lacy.     Your  little  game  ?     I  do  not  understand. 

Helen.  Of  course  you  do  n't.  Like  all  men  you 
have  your  appreciative  mind  fixed  on  yourself,  and  are 
oblivious  to  all  others.  Edmund,  late  husband,  do  you 
know  that  I  have  one  vice  ? 

Lacy.  I  beg  pardon.  I  thought  to  have  discerned 
several. 

Helen.  And  yet  your  divorce  lawyers  had  to  suborn 
witnesses  to  prove  one,  and  that  not  the  real  one.  Ed- 
mund, I  am  ambitious.  Old  Will  says  beware  of  ambition 
— I  court  it. 

Lacy.     Well? 


1 66  Lost  and  Won. 

Helen.  I  would  have  my  name  in  every  one's  mouth 
on  Murray  Hill;  I  would  have  it  in  every  newspaper  in 
the  land.  To  this  end  I  had  arranged  to  elope  with  Lord 
Tomnoddy  this  very  night. 

Lacy.  Well,  if  this  is  not  brutal  frankness,  I  do  n't 
know  the  article. 

Helen.  It  was  delicious.  All  fashionable  New  York 
is  crazy  over  simple  Tom.  Mothers  fling  innocent  daugh- 
ters at  his  head ;  wives  run  after  him,  and  the  men,  old 
and  young,  bump  their  empty  heads  upon  the  floor  in  his 
presence.  To-morrow  the  startled  world  was  to  read 
astounding  fashionable  news:  Lord  Tomnoddy,  the  pet 
of  Murray  Hill,  has  eloped  with  the  beautiful,  accom- 
plished, and  fascinating  Mrs.  Colonel  Edmund  Alfred 
Lacy,  Colonel  Lacy,  late  of  the  United  States  Army.  I 
prepared  the  notices  myself,  and  they  are  in  the  hands  of 
the  reporters,  and  now,  you  stupid,  you  have  spoiled  it  all. 

Lacy.  I  can't  see  it.  You  are  free  to  run  away- 
more  free  than  before. 

Helen.  You  would  exasperate  a  saint !  What  have  I 
left  to  run  from.  Ridiculous !  A  divorced  wife  !  Why, 
it  would  make  simple  Tom  mad  and  us  both  ridiculous. 
No,  I  must  give  it  up  and  get  in  my  reports.  This  is  a 
blunder,  Hub,  that  amounts  to  a  crime.  You  must  be 
punished.  You  shall  not  marry  that  innocent  girl.  You 
must  marry  me  again  and  give  me  another  chance. 


Lost  and  Won.  167 

Lacy.     And  if  I  refuse  ? 

Helen.  I  will  run  over  to  the  old  Virginian  and  tell 
him  the  whole  story. 

Lacy.     And  lose  your  $5,000  a  year. 

Helen.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  In  view  of  the  uncertainties 
of  life  incident  to  Wall  street,  I  had  that  put  in  securities 
no  wise  affected  by  this — what-shall-I-cail-it — forced  loan 
from  Virginia. 

Lacy.     You  '11  think  better  of  this. 

Helen.     No,  I  won't.     I  '11  think  worse. 

Fitzpoodle.     (Outside.}     Hello,   Lacy.     We  want  you. 

Lacy.     I  am  called.     Wait  here  a  moment.     (Exit.} 

Helen.  Poor  old  Ned !  What  a  muss  he  has  made  of 
it.  He  must  be  taught  to  appreciate  my  assistance. 

Enter  BUCKTHORN. 

Buckthorn.     Madam,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 

Helen.  I  hope  it  is  not  complimentary,  for  I  could 
not  reciprocate.  I  think — you  must  excuse  me — you 
have  about  the  worst  face  I  ever  saw.  What  a  get-up  for 
a  heavy  villian  in  a  melodrama. 

Buckthorn.     We  must  not  be  seen  together. 

Helen.  Oh,  don't  be  uneasy.  That  countenance  of 
yours  is  any  woman's  protection.  As  the  politicians  say, 
it  might  be  called  a  prohibitory  tariff. 


1 68  Lost  and  Won. 

Buckthorn.  We  have  no  time  for  trifling.  You  are 
a  wronged  woman— most  damnably  wronged. 

Helen.  Oh,  thank  you  for  nothing.  I  have  known 
that  for  some  time.  Your  information  is  quite  gratuitous. 

Buckthorn.  You  do  n't  know  the  extent  of  your 
wrongs.  I  am  Beckwith,  the  detective.  I  was  employed 
to  blast  your  character  in  an  Indiana  court. 

Helen.  You  are — are  you  that  same  scoundrel?  And 
to  what  do  I  owe  this  sudden  compunction  ? 

Buckthorn.  The  fact  that  we  can  punish  the  instigator 
of  the  offense  and  divide  a  cool  million  between  us. 

Helen.  Now,  you  deep-dyed  villain,  you  heavy  vil- 
lain, will  you  please  tell  me  how  this  is  to  be  done  ? 

Buckthorn.  I  was  the  man  that  saw  that  treasure 
buried.  I  was  the  man  that  dug  it  up  and  gave  it  to 
Captain  Lacy.  You  saw  it  also.  Our  joint  testimony  will 
force  him  to  disgorge. 

Helen.     What  a  revelation  ! 

Buckthorn.  There  is  no  time  to  lose.  He  has  planned 
an  elopement  with  the  old  Virginian's  only  child  to-night. 
That  once  accomplished  and  our  game  is  blocked.  Where 
can  I  meet  you  in  the  city. 

Helen.  Elope  with  her?  Not  much.  He  must  re- 
marry me.  He  headed  off  my  elopement;  I  will  spoil  his. 

Buckthorn.  Quick,  madam.  They  are  breaking  up. 
Give  me  your  address. 


Lost  and  Won.  169 

Helen.  (Handing  card.}  There  it  is.  I  shall  be  at 
home  at  eight  this  evening.  (BUCKTHORN  seizes  card  and 
hurries  off.) 

Coach  comes  on  as  before,  winding  horn.     Enter  LORD  TOM- 
NODDY. 

Lord  Tomnoddy.  Got  away  from  the  beastly  lot,  me 
gull,  to  remind  you  of  your  promise.  Steamer  sails  to- 
morrow. My  adoration  will  not  disappoint  me? 

Helen.     I  fear  I  must,  me  lawd. 

Lord  Tomnoddy.  Ah,  no,  naw !  You  caunt  mean  it, 
and  our  passages  taken  and  my  kit  packed  ? 

Helen.  Caunt  help  it,  me  lawd.  The  elopement  is 
indefinitely  postponed. 

Lord  Tomnoddy.  Naw,  look  here.  Isn't  this  rawther 
hard  times  on  a  poor  devil.  I  say  it  is  the  worst  case  of 
jilt  I  ever  knew. 

Helen.  Not  my  fault,  me  lawd.  This  beast  of  a  hus- 
band has  gone,  without  my  knowledge,  and  obtained  an 
Indiana  divorce. 

Lord  Tomnoddy.     What 's  that  ? 

Helen.  A  short  cut  across  lots  to  a  legal  severance  of 
the  marriage  knot;  very  mean,  sneaking,  and  contempt- 
ible, but  effectual.'  You  can  not  elope  with  a  divorced 
woman.  That 's  ridiculous.  You  can  marry  me. 

Lord  Tomnoddy.     That 's  more  damnably  absurd  than 
15 


170  Lost  and  Won. 

the  other.  Why,  I  never  knew  such  a  howling  cad  as 
this  husband,  you  knaw.  I  could  kick  him.  (Enter 
LACY,  FITZPOODLE,  and  crowd.  To  LACY.)  Ah,  me  deah 
fellaw,  we  've  had  a  jolly  good  time.  We  have,  indeed. 
Would  like  to  see  you  at  Castle  Barrows  to  reciprocate 
your  elegant  hospitality,  you  knaw. 

Fitzpoodle.     Had  a  devil  of  a  good  time. 

Lacy.     Thanks. 

Fitzpoodle.     ^\\  aboard. 

Helen.  Ta,  ta,  hubby.  (Exit  all  save  LACY;  mount 
coach  and  drive  off,  horn  sounding.) 

Lacy.  Gone  at  last,  thank  heaven.  Now,  for  my 
arrangements.  (Enter  BUCKTHORN.)  Here  again  ?  What 
did  I  promise  you  if  you  appeared  upon  this  place  ? 

Buckthorn.  Captain — I  beg  your  pardon,  Colonel — 
Lacy,  you  are  too  hasty.  You  are  in  great  peril.  I  can 
save  you. 

Lacy.  When  my  salvation  depends  on  your  saving 
grace  may  I  be  damned. 

Buckthorn.  But  Captain — Colonel,  I  mean.  You 
don't  know  all.  That  woman  has  gone  back  on  you. 
She  is  on  her  way  to  the  city  this  minute  to  make  com- 
plaint. Now,  give  me  fifty  thousand  and  I  will  make  it 
secure. 

Lacy.     Not  a  cent. 

Buckthorn.     Say  twenty-five. 


Lost  and  Won.  171 

Lacey.     Never.     Now,  go. 

Buckthorn.     Say  ten. 

Lacy.  (Taking  out  his  watch.)  Listen,  you  scoundrel. 
I  give  you  one  minute  to  get  off  this  place. 

Buckthorn.  Oh,  look  here.  Listen  to  reason.  Make 
it  five  thousand  and  a  ticket  to  California. 

Lacy.  You  have  lost  two  seconds.  (Rings  bell.) 
There  goes  another. 

Buckthorn.  (Going.)  I'll  make  you  suffer  for  this. 
Let  us  see  how  you  '11  keep  it  up. 

Lacy.  Twenty  seconds  left.  (Exit  BUCKTHORN  as 
BANG  enters.)  Bang,  have  my  carriage  at  the  turn  of  the 
road  nearest  the  cottage  precisely  at  eight  o'clock  to-night. 
You  must  drive.  Tell  John  I  wish  him  to  remain  at  home 
and  nurse  that  sick  colt.  Do  you  understand  ? 

Bang.  All  right,  Colonel.  (Exit.  Whistle  of  train 
heard.) 

Lacy.  If  he  makes  that  train  he  will  gain  an  hour. 
The  next,  an  express,  passes  this  station  without  stopping. 
There  he  runs  across  the  field.  There  is  a  jump  of  twelve 
feet.  God-send,  he  breaks  his  neck !  No,  he  is  over.  The 
devil  is  kind  to  his  own.  He  makes  the  train.  An  hour 
to  town ;  an  hour  to  find  Helen ;  an  hour  for  the  police, 
and  an  hour  in  which  to  return — four  hours.  I  can  ac- 
complish my  purpose  in  that  time,  if  at  all. 

CURTAIN. 


172  Lost  and  Won. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE:  Interior  of  Barr  cottage.  Glass  windows,  giving 
sunset  on  Hudson. — After,  moonlight.  Room,  doors  right  and 
left.  Bessie  discovered  sewing.  Aunt  Hester  and  Schack. 

Aunt  Hester.  We  want  fish  for  breakfast.  Brother 
Hamilton's  appetite  is  so  delicate  that  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible to  find  any  thing  for  him  to  eat. 

Schack.  Its  a'most  impossible  to  find  any  ting  foh  any 
ob  us  to  eat. 

Aunt  Hester.  Oh,  as  for  us,  we  can  eat  almost  any 
thing. 

Schack.     When  we  gets  'em. 

Aunt  Hester.  And  Schack,  be  very  careful  of  that 
wine  Governor  Medcalf  sent  out  for  your  master. 

Schack.  Jis'  as  careful  as  if  it  was  a  suckin'  chile.  I 
watches  dat  wine  as  a  hawk  watches  a  hen  roost. 

Aunt  Hester.  Now,  mind ;  fresh  fish  for  breakfast.  Do 
them,  Schack,  in  good  old  Virginia  style — rolled  in  corn 
meal,  and  fried  in  fresh  butter  by  a  quick  fire. 

Schack.     Fish  an'  fresh  butter. 

Aunt  Hester.     What  do  you  repeat  that  for  ? 

Schack.  Why,  Missus,  dar  aint  a  speck  of  fresh  buttah 
in  dis  house,  and  wha'  dem  fish  is  to  come  from  de  Lawd 
alone  knows. 


Lost  and  Won.  173 

Aunt  Hester.  That  is  your  business.  I  told  you  fresh 
fish  this  morning.  What  are  you  about,  Schack  ? 

Schack.  About  a  good  many  tings.  I 'se  cook  an' 
chamba'maid.  I  'se  de  vally  de  shamble  to  de  ole  masta. 
I  runs  errands  an'  answers  de  doah-bell,  an'  de  meantime, 
'tween  'em  all,  I  mends  my  wearin'  'parel  and  cobble  my 
shoes. 

Aunt  Hester.  Well,  you  have  twenty-four  hours  a  day 
to  do  that  in.  Why  grumble  ? 

Schack.  I  aint  a  grumblin',  tho'  I  does  have  to  stretch 
dem  twenty-foh  hours  sometimes. 

Aunt  Hester.     Well,  do  n't  forget  the  fish. 

Schack.  Foh  de  Lawd.  I  reads  in  de  Scriptur  ob  de 
good  Savior  feedin'  de  multitudes  on  five  fish  an'  five 
loaves.  I  'd  like  to  know  how  he  did  it — I  would. 

Aunt  Hester.  Schack,  this  Northern  life  is  fast  ruining 
you.  You  are  actually  getting  profane. 

Schack.  Profane ?  I'd  like  to  see  de  man,  white  or 
brack,  'ed  carry  dis  family  as  I  does  an'  not,  at  times — at 
times,  I  say,  not  allers,  but  at  times — let  out  wickedness. 
Now,  'bout  dem  fish.  Dar  aint  no  market  'twixt  now  an' 
breakfast  time,  an'  I  '11  jis'  step  ober  to  Colonel  Lacy's  wid 
de  compliments  ob  de  masta,  an'  ask  foh  de  loan  of  three 
or  foh  fish  out  of  his  fish  pon'.  Foh  de  buttah — I  declar 
foh  de  Lawd,  I  doan  know  what  to  do  foh  dat  buttah. 
Guess  I  ax  foh  de  loan  ob  de  buttah,  also.  (Exit,  grumbling?) 


174  I^st  and  Won. 

Aunt  Hester.  That  old  nigger  is  getting  very  trouble- 
some. I  do  wish  brother  Hamilton  would  employ  some 
one  to  help  him. 

Bessie.  Aunt,  what  Uncle  Schack  says — dear  old  man 
—is  the  melancholy  truth.  He  is  carrying  this  family  on 
his  old  shoulders. 

Aunt  Hester.  Well,  I  know  he  is  faithful  and  indus- 
trious, and  all  that,  but  he  is  getting  so  impudent  in  his  im- 
portance. Why,  he  talks  as  if  we  were  dependent  on  him. 

Bessie.  I  fear,  dear  aunt,  there  is  too  much  truth  in 
what  his  manner  asserts. 

Aunt  Hester.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Bessie.  That  to  his  exertions  we  owe  our  daily  bread. 
Oh,  aunt,  it  is  too  humiliating  !  You  do  n't  know.  You 
have  n't  seen  what  I  am  forced  to  see.  This  good  old 
man  actually  steals  that  we  may  live. 

Aunt  Hester.  Bessie,  I  can't  believe  this.  You  are 
in  error,  child. 

Bessie.     No,  no ;  I  am  not.     I  had  proof  of  it  to-day. 

Aunt  Hester.     But  he  has  means  given  him. 

Bessie.  To  buy  such  food  as  we  have,  aunt,  he  has 
little  or  nothing.  It  is  horrible. 

Aunt  Hester.  What !  a  great  Virginia  family  reduced 
to  such  degradation  ?  What  can  we  do  ? 

Bessie.  (Heavily.}  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Yes,  I  do! 
Colonel  Lacy  offered  father  his  hand  to  me  in  marriage 


Lost  and  Won.  175 

this  morning  and  father  refused  with  insult.  I  can  not 
understand  it.  I  will  sacrifice  myself  that  he  may  live. 
I  see  him  failing  day  by  day,  his  dear  head  bowed  in  want 
and  misery.  What  is  my  life  to  his  and  yours  ?  I  am 
resolved. 

Aunt  Hester.     On  what,  my  child  ? 

Bessie.     To  marry  him  without  my  father's  consent. 

Aunt  Hester.     Oh,  Bessie. 

Bessie.  What  can  we  do  ?  I  can  not  see  him  dying 
by  inches,  his  gray  hairs  going  down  in  sorrow  to  the 
grave.  I  am  resolved  to  act,  and  act  at  once. 

Aunt  Hester.     Do  you  love  this  Colonel  Lacy  ? 

Bessie.  I  don't  know.  What  matters  it?  It  is  my 
duty  to  sacrifice  myself.  I  know  that  he  is  a  gentleman. 
I  can  respect  him.  Indeed,  aunt,  there  is  real  nobility  in 
his  nature.  I  can  see  it,  if  my  father  can  not. 

Aunt  Hester.  Bessie,  be  careful.  Remember  you 
are  a  Barr — the  only  child  of  a  noble  family.  Better 
abide  by  your  father's  decision. 

Bessie.  A  noble  family  in  rags  !  A  noble  family  living 
on  the  questionable  efforts  of  an  old  slave.  My  father's 
stubborn  pride  holds  out  even  before  death  from  want. 
Oh,  no;  my  way  is  plain  before  me.  For  his  sake,  for 
yours,  for  myself,  I  go  the  way  my  duty  points.  (Bell 
rings.}  It  is  Colonel  Lacy.  Aunt,  leave  us,  please. 

Aunt  Hester.     Oh,  my  child,  be  careful. 


176  Lost  and  Won. 

Bessie.    I  will;  I  will.    (Kissing her?)    Good-night,  aunt 
Aunt  Hester.     Good-night,  my  darling.     (Exit.} 
Bessie.     I  tremble  like  an  aspen.     I  feel  that  I  am 
doing  wrong.     Heaven,  help  me. 

Enter  COLONEL  LACY. 

Lacy.  I  come,  my  little  girl.  I  come  to  claim  you, 
my  love.  Are  you  yet  resolved  ? 

Bessie.  (After  a  pause.}  Yes;  I  am  a  Barr.  My 
promise  is  as  sacred  as  an  oath.  I  am  resolved  against 
my  father's  will.  I  disobey  that  I  may  save  him. 

Lacy.  You  are  right,  my  darling.  Trust  me,  and  if 
I  fail  or  falter  may  heaven  fail  me !  My  carriage  waits  us. 
A  short  drive,  a  little  ceremony,  and  you  are  mine.  Put 
on  your  hat  and  wraps.  (Bell rings.}  Who  can  that  be? 

Bessie.     Surely  not  my  father.     He  is  in  the  city. 

Enter  AMOS  ADZE. 

Amos.  Uncle  Schack  informed  me  that  I  would  find 
you  in.  He  said  nothing  of  you,  Colonel,  or  I  should 
not  have  intruded. 

Bessie.  No  intrusion,  Amos.  The  Colonel  and  I 
were  about  to  take  a  stroll.  Will  you  excuse  me  while  I 
see  my  aunt  again,  and  put  on  my  hat  ? 

Amos.  Certainly.  I  want  a  few  minutes  with  my 
Colonel  before  I  return  to  town. 


Lost  and  Won.  177 

Bessie.  (Aside  to  Lacy.}  He  will  leave  while  I  am 
out.  (Exit.) 

Lacy.  Sit  down,  Amos.  I  have  a  little  time  at  your 
disposal. 

Amos.     Thank  you,  Colonel.     (Sitting.) 

Lacy.     What  is  it,  my  boy  ? 

Amos.     I  hardly  know  where  or  how  to  begin. 

Lacy.     I  listen. 

Amos.  You  know,  Colonel,  my  poor  mother,  left  a 
widow  when  T  was  a  boy,  was  lifted  out  of  want  by  Mr. 
Barr,  and  I  was  adopted  in  his  family,  reared  and  educated 
as  one  of  his  own. 

Lacy.     You  have  told  me  as  much. 

Amos.  We  were  Northern  people,  induced  to  emi- 
grate South — my  father  as  a  teacher.  He  sickened  and 
died,  leaving  us  without  bread  or  shelter.  Not  long  after 
my  poor  mother  followed,  and  I  lived  on,  the  companion 
of  the  two  children  of  my  benefactor.  The  son,  my 
foster-brother,  fell  fighting  for  the  Southern  cause;  the 
daughter  is  here.  You  know  her,  Colonel. 

Lacy.     I  know  her.     I  worship  her. 

Amos.  I  see,  and  it  is  this  seeing  that  makes  me 
speak,  Colonel.  From  the  time  that  I  joined  your  com- 
pany till  I  lost  my  leg  at  Malvern  Hill,  you  were  very 
kind  to  me. 


178  Lost  and  Won. 

Lacy.  You  were  too  brave  a  lad— too  good  a  soldier 
not  to  be  loved. 

Amos.  I  remember  your  tender  nursing  when  I  lay 
so  long  lingering  between  life  and  death.  Colonel  Lacy, 
there  is  but  one  being  on  earth  I  love  better  than  you. 

Lacy.     Yes,  Amos. 

Amos.  You  wo  n't  laugh  when  I  tell  you.  I,  a  poor 
mechanic  and  cripple,  love  Bessie  Barr. 

Lacy.     Amos ! 

Amos.  Love — I  worship  her !  From  my  earliest  boy- 
hood till  the  present  moment  she  has  been,  not  my  hope, 
but  my  star — my  religion ! 

Lacy.     You  have  told  her  this  ? 

Amos.  Never.  I  did  not  dream  of  telling.  I  dared 
not.  She  is  so  far  above  that  it  seems  a  crime  to  love  her. 

Lacy.     Poor  boy. 

Amos.  But  I  have  watched  over — I  have  cared  for-—- 
I  have  guarded  and  helped  her  in  my  poor  way.  You 
see,  when  I  came  from  the  hospital,  maimed  for  life,  I 
found  my  good  old  benefactor  reduced  to  the  direst  pov- 
erty. I  managed  to  turn  over  to  him,  under  pretense  that 
it  was  an  old  Revolutionary  claim  being  paid  him,  all  my 
pension.  Then,  by  grinding  an  organ  on  the  corners  of 
the  streets  and  limping  into  cars  to  sell  ballads,  I  managed 
to  live  until  I  learned  a  trade. 

Lacy.     What  a  life  j 


Lost  and  Won.  179 

Amos.  The  thought  of  my  dear  old  friend ;  the  love 
of  this  sweet  lady,  kept  me  up.  My  trade  once  secured 
I  felt  independent.  But  I  went  on.  You  see  these  things 
about  here,  Colonel  ? 

Lacy.     The  furniture? 

Amos.  I  made  them  all,  working  out  of  hours,  far 
into  the  night,  that  I  might  make  them  comfortable. 
There  is  not  a  chair  or  table  but  has  had  worked  into  it 
my  love  of  her.  The  music  of  her  sweet  voice  I  seemed 
to  hear;  the  holy  beauty  of  her  lovely  face  I  seemed  to 
see,  cheered  me  on  until  I  lost  all  sense  of  weariness,  all 
want  of  sleep. 

Lacy.     She  never  knew  of  this? 

Amos.  Oh,  Colonel,  how  could  she  ?  As  well  ask  a 
bird  to  stoop  and  be  companion  to  a  clod ;  a  star  to  leave 
its  place  for  a  home  in  a  swamp.  Save  yourself,  the  secret 
goes  down  to  be  buried  in  my  grave.  I  had  to  tell  you 
I  knew  you  loved  her.  I  know  that  she  loves  you;  that 
she  is  to  be  yours.  God  help  me — and  I  come  now  to 
give  her  away  as  it  were.  You  and  I  are  not  so  wide 
apart.  We  have  been  comrades  in  the  face  of  death. 
That  makes  us  equal,  if  you  were  an  officer  and  I  only  a 
private.  Take  her,  Colonel.  (Rising.)  Be  kind  to  her; 
I  know  you  will.  I  go  my  poor  way,  now,  without  my 
star.  I  never  had  hope,  but  I  go  without  light.  It  is 
dreary  enough.  But  it  must  be.  God  bless  you  both! 


180^  Lost  and  Won. 

BESSIE  rushes  in. 

Bessie.  Not  so,  Amos !  You  shall  not  go ;  or,  if  you 
do,  take  me  with  you ! 

Amos.     Bessie,  what  do  this  mean  ? 

Bessie.  It  means  I  love  you.  I  did  not  know  it  until 
now.  I  heard  you;  I  heard  it  all.  Oh,  Amos,  take  me! 

Amos.  (Clasping  her  in  his  arms .)  Bessie,  Colonel,  is 
this  a  dream  ? 

Lacy.  Aye,  my  brave  boy,  and  a  dream  to  last 
through  life!  Take  him,  Bessie;  he  is  worthy  of  you. 
Take  her,  Amos.  You  have  won.  (Noise  of  a  carriage 
heard  without;  loud  knocking,  and  ringing  of  bell.)  And  I 
have  lost. 

CURTAIN. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE:  Lacy  Lodge,  same  as  in  Act  II.  Schack  discovered 
with  basket.  Enter  Amos  and  Lacy  from  house. 

Lacy.  Well,  uncle  Schack,  how  are  you  this  morning, 
and  how  is  the  family  ? 

Shack.  Dey  is  well,  sah;  dat  is,  as  fah  as  dey  is  up. 
Foh  myself,  sah,  I'se  a  touch  of  rheumatiz. 

Lacy.  Sorry,  Schack.  Have  you  tried  St.  Jacob's 
Oil  that  I  gave  you  ? 


Lost  and  Won.  181 

Schack.  Yes,  sah.  I  tried  dat  spific ;  rubbed  de  saint 
in  well,  sah,  an'  wid  prahers  to  the  udder  saints. 

Lacy.     Well,  I  hope  with  a  good  result. 

Schack.  Only  temporary,  sah ;  only  temporary.  While 
I'  se  arubbin'  it  is  a  mighty  sight  better,  sah ;  but  arter,  de 
pains  come  back,  bad  as  ever,  sah. 

Lacy.  Why,  that  is  too  bad!  Well,  what  can  I  do  for 
you,  Schack? 

Schack.  Well,  dat 's  it,  Colonel.  I  ;se  so  bad  wid  de 
rheumatiz  I  raly  aint  able  to  walk  to  de  village  foh  de 
fresh  fish  for  the  ole  massa  and  de  missus. 

Lacy.  Certainly,  Uncle  Schack ;  go  to  my  cook  and 
tell  him  that  you  are  to  have  the  fish  and  any  thing  else 
you  may  need. 

Schack.  Oh,  tank  you,  sah.  You's  berry  kind,  an' 
sometime  to-day,  when  I  kin  hobble  to  the  village,  I  '11  re- 
place dem  tings,  sah ;  shu',  sah.  Good  mornin'  gentlemen. 
(Exit.) 

Lacy.  Poor  old  Schack ;  true  to  the  last.  Well, 
Amos,  we  had  rather  an  exciting  scene  last  night.  Have 
you  any  idea  what  brought  the  old  gentleman  home  in 
such  a  hurry,  and  why  he  brought  a  police  officer  with 
him? 

Amos.  It  is  all  a  mystery  to  me.  The  officer  let  out 
something  about  an  elopement,  but  Mr.  Barr  silenced  him 
before  I  could  learn  what  it  meant. 


182  Lost  and  Won. 

Lacy.  Ah,  I  understand.  He  came  to  prevent  an 
elopement.  I  see  the  fine  Italian  hand  of  Madam  in  that. 
Well,  well,  she  little  knew  that  her  precaution  was  useless. 

Amos.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Lacy.  What  dreams  are  made  of,  nothing.  Did  the 
anxious  father  subside  after  I  left? 

Amos.  Only  to  be  aroused  again  when  dear  little 
Bessie  informed  him  of  her  choice.  I  was  treated  to  an 
iced  shower  bath,  and  did  not  resent  it.  It  is  hard, 
Colonel,  for  a  proud  old  Virginian  to  bestow  his  only  child 
on  a  mudsill,  a  greasy  mechanic,  as  we  are  called  down 
South. 

Lacy.  Never  mind,  Amos.  That  will  come  all  right. 
Have  you  followed  my  directions? 

Amos.     To  the  letter. 

Lacy.  Written  Mr.  Barr  that  you  have  discovered  the 
thief  and  can  put  him  in  possession  of  his  lost  millions  ? 

Amos.     I  have. 

Lacy.     Asked  him  to  meet  you  here  ? 

Amos.     I  have. 

Lacy.  Telegraphed  to  the  police  headquarters  for  an 
officer  ? 

Amos.  I  have.  Now,  Colonel,  I  have  obeyed  your 
orders  as  I  was  wont  to  obey  them  in  camp  and  on  the 
field.  But  may  I  not  know  something  more  of  this  busi- 
ness ?  I  do  n't  know  why,  but  I  feel  strangely  disquieted. 


Lost  and  Won.  183 

Lacy.  Possess  your  soul  in  peace,  my  boy.  I  am 
putting  you  in  a  way  to  win  your  bride  and  a  marriage 
portion  of  twenty-five  thousand  dollars,  that  being  the 
amount  offered  for  a  recovery  of  the  money. 

Amos.     But  why  not  trust  me  with  the  details  ? 
.  Lacy.     It  is  not  necessary,  and  I  fear  you  will  disar- 
range my  plans.     When  the  officer  arrives  and  Mr.  Barr 
is  present,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  order  the  arrest  of  the 
man  I  shall  designate. 

Amos.     All  right,  sir. 

Enter  BANG. 

Bang.     Colonel.     (Saluting.} 
Lacy.     Sergeant. 

Bang.     Female  at  headquarters,  wishes  to  see  Colonel. 
Lacy.     Request  her  to  walk  here. 
Bang.     All  right,  sir.     (Exit.) 

Enter  HELEN. 

Lacy.  Well,  my  dear,  to  what  am  I  indebted  for  this 
second  visit. 

Helen.  Business,  not  pleasure,  you  may  be  sure.  So 
you  did  not  elope  last  night? 

Lacy.  Not  so  much  as  I  expected  to.  My  intentions 
were  honorabl-e,  but  there  was  a  slip  twixt  cup  and  lip. 

Helen.  In  the  shape  of  an  indignant  father  and  the 
police  ? 


184  Lost  and  Won. 

Lacy.     For  which  I  am  indebted  to  you. 

Helen.  Certainly,  you  defeated  my  elopement;  I 
intervened  in  yours.  Turn  about,  hubby,  is  only  fair  play. 

Lacy.  Learn,  then,  that  your  interference  was  not  only 
uncalled  for,  but  it  came  too  late.  At  the  last  moment  the 
little  girl  discovered  that  she  loved  some  one  better  than 
your  late  husband,  and  so  declined  the  match. 

Helen.  You  lost  the  bride,  and  with  the  bride,  the 
million. 

Lacy.     I  lost  both. 

Helen.  Why,  hubby,  you  are  not  as  facinating  as  you 
once  were. 

Lacy.  I  believe  not.  And,  before  the  day  is  out,  I 
will  be  of  so  little  value,  that  even  you  will  not  stoop  to 
pick  me  up. 

Helen.  I  do  n't  know  about  that.  But  what  is  it  you 
mean  that  is  so  desperate?  Clip  your  whiskers?  Wear 
your  hair  esthetically  ?  Turn  politician  and  be  returned  to 
Congress?  Come,  tell  me.  I  am  dying  of  anxiety  to 
know. 

Lacy.  It  is  very  simple.  It  means  only  that  I  throw 
up  my  hand.  Abandon  the  contest  in  this  attempt  to  hold 
on  to  another  man's  money,  let  the  consequences  be  what 
they  may.  I  have  played  and  lost.  I  purpose  paying  like 
a  gentleman. 

Helen.    Ned,  I  am  amazed.     I  may  say  I  am  disgusted. 


Lost  and  Won.  185 

Why,   what   has  come  over  you  to  bring  about  such  a 
change  ? 

Lacy.  You  won't  understand  me,  Nell,  but  I  may  as 
well  tell  you.  I  never  was  fitted  by  nature  or  education 
for  the  role  I  have  attempted.  All  this  wealth;  all  my 
success  in  business;  all  this  luxury  with  which  I  am 
surrounded,  have  failed  to  yield  me  a  moment's  enjoy- 
ment. There  is  a  suicide  called  the  suicide  of  crime  that 
kills  the  soul  and  tortures  the  life  left  until  life  is  hell. 
You  don't  understand  this,  of  course. 

Helen.  Oh,  bother  your  high  talk!  Drop  that  and 
drive  on.  I  am  interested. 

Lacy.  Well,  life  was  bad  enough ;  but  when  I  came 
to  know  my  victims,  it  became  intolerable. 

Helen.     Because  you  loved  this  girl ! 

Lacy.  No,  not  that  altogether,  though  I  do  love  her. 
But  listen.  If  in  my  game  for  fortune,  I  had  encountered 
the  average  lot — hard  cheeked  and  harder  hearted  people 
— I  could  have  nerved  myself  up  to  carry  on  my  villainy. 
But,  when  I  came  to  know  these  innocent  and  inoffensive 
people ;  to  know  that  I  was  tramping  the  life  out  of  this 
helpless  old  gentleman  and  his  guileless  daughter,  I  could 
not  bear  it.  And  when  to  this  is  added  the  fact  you  had 
coalesced  with  that  scoundrel  and  I  was  to  live  by  your 
joint  consent,  I  concluded  that  life  was  not  worth  the 
living. 

16 


1 86  Lost  and  Won. 

Helen.  See  here,  my  penitent  friend.  There  is  a  part 
of  your  interesting  confession  that  is  not  true. 

Lacy.     What  part  ? 

Helen.  Wherein  you  say  I  coalesced  with  that  scoun- 
drel. I  am  doing  business  on  my  own  account — no  con- 
nection whatever  with  the  house  over  the  way. 

Lacy.     I  have  his  word  for  it. 

Helen.  And  his  word  is  not  worth  a  North  Pacific 
bond. 

Lacy.  He  expects  to  sustain  his  charges  by  appealing 
to  your  testimony. 

Helen.  I  think  he  will  be  kept  busy  taking  care  of 
himself. 

Enter  BANG. 

Bang.     Colonel.     (Saluting.) 

Lacy.     Sergeant. 

Bang.  Party  answering  to  the  name  of  Barr — Miss 
Hester  and  Miss  Barr — are  at  headquarters  asking  for  the 
Colonel. 

Lacy.     Say  I  will  be  in. 

Bang.     All  right,  Colonel.     (Exit.) 

Lacy.     Excuse  me,  Nell. 

Helen.  Why,  most  cheerfully.  Go  to  your  fascination. 
(LACY  enters  house.  Enters  BUCKTHORN  cautiously.)  Well, 
my  sweet-faced  friend,  are  you  here  ?  Where  are  the 
officers  ? 


Lost  and  Won.  187 

Buckthorn.  I  came  a  train  ahead  that  I  might  see  you. 
Will  he  come  to  terms  ? 

Helen.  Not  a  term.  He  is  busy  this  minute  transfer- 
ring all  his  property  to  the  rightful  owner — that  old  Vir- 
ginian. 

Buckthorn.  The  devil,  he  is!  We  must  stop  that 
somehow !  You  know  when  once  we  show  our  hands — 

Helen.     Very  dirty  hands ! 

Buckthorn.  Our  power  is  at  an  end.  We  make 
nothing. 

Helen.  I  know — a  blackmailer  is  like  a  bee — loses  his 
sting  in  stinging. 

Buckthorn.  I  dare  not  be  seen  talking  to  you.  Would 
you  mind  stepping  this  way  where  we  would  not  be  ob- 
served ? 

Helen.  Not  the  least;  rather  think  my  character 
would  be  imperiled  by  being  seen  with  you.  Lead  the 
way.  (Exeunt.) 

Enter  from  house  LACY  and  AMOS. 

Lacy.  (Aside.)  And  now  I  am  as  poor  as  I  was  five 
years  since,  poorer,  for  then  I  stooped  to  crime.  Now, 
my  dear  fellow,  for  your  part  ? 

Amos.     "  My  part,"  what  is  that,  Colonel? 

Lacy.     In  a  few  minutes,  the  police  you  have  sum- 


1 88  Lost  and  Won. 

moned  will  be  here,  and  it  is  your  unpleasant  duty  to  hand 
me  over  as  the  criminal. 

Amos.  To — .  What  do  you  mean  for  Heaven's  sake  ? 
What  does  this  mean  ? 

Lacy.  It  means  a  melancholy  fact.  The  man  you 
loved,  looked  up  to  and  so  long  obeyed  is  a  common  crimi- 
nal. And  it  will  be  your  duty  to  give  me  up. 

Amos.     My  God.     I — I  give  you  up.     I \vill  not  do  it. 

Lacy.  What !  not  to  gain  an  independence  ?  Not  to 
win  the  beautiful  girl  who  loves  you  ? 

Amos..  What  ?  Turn  on  my  comrade — the  man  who 
faced  death  with  me,  who  has  slept  under  my  blanket  and 
shared  my  food !  Did  you  nurse  me  to  make  a  traitor  of 
me  !  And  then  to  mention  her  !  Damn  it !  I  could  kill 
you  where  you  stand !  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  damned 
scoundrel,  do  you  mean  to  insult  me !  Why  do  you  do 
this? 

Lacy.  I  meant,  I  meant  (after  a  pause),  I  thought  I 
was  punished.  You  speak,  my  dear  boy,  as  if  I  had  a 
choice.  I  have  none.  The  fates  are  closing  my  doom 
about  me,  and,  even  if  I  could,  I  would  not  escape. 

Awos.     And  why  ?     Oh,  Colonel,  reflect. 

Lacy.  Why?  When  the  time  comes  that  a  man  is  to 
lose  his  self-respect  and  live  by  the  consent  of  others,  life 
is  worthless.  But  I  have  no  chance. 

Amos.     None  ? 


Lost  and  Won.  189 

Lacy.  Two  bloodhounds  are  on  my  track — one  a  male, 
the  other  a  woman.  One  may  kill,  frighten  or  even  pay 
off  a  male  blackmailer.  But  a  female  blackmailer  is  as 
frantic  in  her  malice  as  a  scotched  snake.  She  will  sting 
herself  to  poison  you. 

AMOS.     But  why  select  me  for  this  horrid  task  ? 

Lacy.  Amos,  I  did  not  mean  to  insult  you,  lad,  I  was 
only  trying  to  do  justice.  It  is  my  whim  to  gild  my  evil 
life  with  one  good  deed.  You  do  me  a  favor,  Amos. 
Now,  stand  firm,  and,  when  the  officers  demand  the  crim- 
inal, point  me  out,  and  Bessie  and  the  twenty-five  thousand 
are  yours.  I  think  they  are  here. 

Enter  from  the  house,  ELDER   BARR,    BESSIE  and  AUNT 

HESTER;  from  right;  two  police  officers ;  left,  HELEN. 

Elder  Barr.  This  is  satisfactory  so  far  as  we  have  pro- 
gressed. Now,  for  the  thief. 

Bessie*     Aunt,  we  are  not  needed  here. 

Elder  Barr.  Yes,  my  daughter,  I  wish  you  to  see  the 
criminal  who  has  wrought  us  such  wrong. 

First  Officer.  (To  AMOS.)  We  are  here  on  your  sum- 
mons. What  are  we  to  do  ? 

Lacy.     (To  AMOS.)     Rouse  up  man!     Do  your  duty. 

Enter  BUCKTHORN. 
Helen.     You  want  the  rascal  ?     Well,  here  he  is — Mr. 


190  Lost  and  Won. 

Wingait,  alias  Buckthorn,  alias  Beckwith.  -  Arrest  him ! 
{Officers  lay  hands  on  BUCKTHORN.) 

Elder  Barr.    What,  my  overseer !    I  suspected  as  much ! 

Buckthorn.  None  of  this  now.  None  of  this.  I  am  a 
witness. 

Helen.  Certainly  you  are;  the  best  in  the  world.  At 
least  you  were  in  Indiana.  I  can  testify  I  saw  you  dig  up 
the  treasure  and  cart  it  off. 

Buckthorn.    This  is  an  infernal  conspiracy.    You  will  see. 

Helen.  Certainly,  we  shall,  when  her  gracious  Maj- 
esty, the  Queen  of  England,  gets  done  with  you. 

First  Officer.  Henry  Wingait,  alias  Buckthorn,  alias 
Beckwith,  I  arrest  you  as  an  escaped  convict  from  Australia. 

Buckthorn.  I  throw  up  the  sponge.  You've  got  me. 
Move  on.  {Exeunt  officers  with  BUCKTHORN.) 

Amos.     Thank  God,  I  have  escaped! 

{Lacy.')     {To  HELEN.)     Why  Nell,  you  amaze  me! 

Helen.  Of  course,  I  do.  No  great  compliment.  It 
takes  very  little  to  maze  your  simple,  sentimental  soul. 

Lacy.     But  how  did  you  accomplish  this  ? 

Helen.  Quite  easily.  When  I  first  saw  that  villianous 
face,  I  knew — I  felt  it  in  me — that  it  had  not  been  carried 
to  this  time  of  life  without  some  deed  that  justified  God's 
writing  on  his  face.  I  hurried  to  police  headquarters  and 
asked  to  inspect  the  Rogue's  Gallery.  I  found  hundreds  of 
weak  faces  and  a  few  wicked  ones  of  our  native  land.  It 


Lost  and  Won.  191 

was  not  until  I  reached  the  distinguished  foreigners  that  I 
found  the  photo  of  our  friend. 

Lacy.  Well,  you  are  as  clever  as  you  are  good.  I  am 
in  love  with  you.  We  will  marry  again. 

Helen.  Not  necessary.  Your  decree  of  divorce  is  a  forgery. 

Lacy.  Is  it  possible  ?  (To  ELDER  BARR.)  Mr.  Barr, 
you  owe  your  return  to  fortune  to  this  brave  fellow. 
Without  him — and  your  daughter — I  would  have  done 
nothing.  He  is  one  to  cherish  and  love.  You  see  Miss 
Bessie  will  second  me  in  that. 

Bessie.     Yes,  father,  we  are  plighted. 

Barr.     What  ?  give  my  only  child  to  a  mechanic  ? 

Lacy.  Never  fear,  Colonel.  The  shame  of  labor  went 
down  with  slavery.  The  paper  caps  are  coming  to  the 
front.  They  rule  our  country  politically,  now ;  ere  long 
they  will  rule  it  socially. 

Barr.  Well,  my  children,  you  must  determine,  I  sup- 
pose, for  yourselves.  An  old  man's  head  gives  way  to 
young  folks'  hearts.  Be  happy. 

Lacy.  And,  Amos,  avoid  temptation  and  the  Lord  will 
save  you  from  evil. 

Helen.  And  remember,  if  you  fall,  it  is  never  too  late 
to  mend.  Be  virtuous  and  you  '11  be  happy.  If  there  are 
any  old  saws  from  ancient  copy-books  you  can  think  of, 
here  is  the  place  to  put  them  in.  If  not,  we  will  to  break" 
fast,  for  I  am  as  hungry  as  a  wolf. 

CURTAIN. 


A  KING'S  LOVE. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 

EDWARD  IV,  King  of  England. 
RICHARD,  Duke  of  Gloucester. 
LORD  DE  GREVILLE. 
SIR  MARMADUKE  WOODVILLE. 
CARDINAL  ST.  JOHN. 
JOHN  SHORE. 
WHITHOLD,  Court  Jester. 
MASTER  MARTIN. 
FRIAR  BUNGAY,  Court  Astrologer. 
JANE  SHORE. 
LADY  ALICE. 

MARGERY,  Maid  to  Lady  Alice. 
Lords,  Citizens,  and  Monks. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE:  Hall  of  JANE  SHORE'S  house  in  London,  quaintly  but 
plainly  furnished.  Glass  doors  back,  opening  on  balcony,  beyond 
•which  can  be  seen  housetops  covered  with  snow,  with  leafless 
branches  of  trees  between.  LADY  ALICE  and  SIR  MARMA- 
DUKE WOODVILLE  discovered;  LADY  ALICE  with  book  in  her 
hand. 

Sir  Marmaduke.     Upon  my  soul,  fair  dame,  it  seems 

to  me 
A  burning  shame,  that  you  should  dim  your  eyes, 


A  King  s  Love.  193 

Such  sweet  eyes  too,  o'er  musty  books,  when  you 
Should  be  at  court,  amid  the  courtly  throng, 
The  fairest  of  them  all.     And  now,  confess, 
Do  not  those  little  ears  long,  woman-like, 
For  lover's  vows  and  courtier's  flattery? 

Lady  Alice.     I  -have  such  loving  vows  within  this  book, 
Far  sweeter  than  the  love  of  selfish  men, 
Who  flatter  to  deceive,  Sir  Marmaduke. 

Sir  Mar.     By  the  mass,  I  thought  those  solemn  books 
Held  naught  but  prayers  and  meditations. 

Lady  Alice.     You  do  mistake ;  now  listen  while  I  read 
One  such.     (Reads.) 

When  o'er  the  frosty  plain  and  hill, 

The  feathery  cloak  of  winter  lies ; 
When  from  the  north  the  winds  blow  chill, 

And  rain  falls  freezing  from  the  skies, 

We  all  do  know,  that  'neath  the  snow, 

The  tender  violets  'gin  to  grow, 
To  bloom  by  brooks  and  woods  along, 
When  frost  and  sleet  and  snow  are  gone. 

When  maiden's  brow  is  pure  and  white, 

And  marble-like  her  bosom  lies, 
When  naught  of  love  may  her  delight, 

And  suitors  meet  but  cold  surprise, 
'7 


194  -A  King's  Love. 

'Neath  rounded  bosoms,  white  as  snow, 
Love's  tender  passion  'gins  to  glow, 

To  bloom  on  lips  to  lover's  kiss 

When  life  is  love,  and  love  is  bliss. 

Sir  Mar.     And  those  be  books,  small  wonder,  dame, 
Our  holy  men  are  found  so  fond  of  them. 

Lady  Alice.     Should  read,  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  learn 

a  world, 

Now  dead  to  you,  of  strange  delight,  close  hid 
Between  these  somber  covers. 

Sir  Mar.     Me  read!  by  our  blessed  lady,  but  I  can  't; 
Nor  cared  I  to  till  now.     Gramercy,  dame, 
But  I  was  trained  to  write  my  name  in  blows 
On  iron-potted  heads,  to  stride  a  steed, 
And  hold  a  lance  in  rest.     The  books  were  left 
To  God's  anointed  younger  brothers,  dame, 
Who,  having  scant  inheritance  below, 
Seek,  through  their  lore,  for  goodly  things  above. 

Lady  Alice.     And  more 's  the  pity,  gallant  Sir ;  for  see, 
Some  day  a  stronger  arm  in  wrath  will  strike 
Thine  iron-potted  head,  and  crack  the  skull 
That  can  not  read,  beneath.     Then  thou  wilt  find 
Thy  younger  brother  taking  precedence, 
And  something  worse  befall  thee. 

Sir  Mar.     Nay,  nay,  for  I  do  pay  the  church  her  dues, 


A  King's  Love.  195 

And  never  trust  my  skull  in  deadly  fight 
Till  duly  shrived.     If  Satan  sieze  me  then, 
Upon  my  heart  I  wear  a  relic,  dame, 
Blessed  by  His  Holiness  the  Pope,  you  see, 
That  Satan  feeling  that  will  let  me  drop. 

Lady  Alice.     Such  course  were  wise  in  Satan.    Strange 

it  is 

That  he  who  came  to  teach  us  peace  on  Earth, 
Should  have  such  following  of  fighting  men. 

Sir  Mar.     Yea,  of  a  surety  most  strange  it  is ; 
For  I  do  note  that  all  these  bloody  wars 
Receive  the  sanction  of  the  holy  church; 
But  yet  I  note  a  thing  more  strange,  fair  dame. 

Lady  Alice.     And  what  be  that,  Sir  Knight  ? 

Sir  Mar.     I  do  observe  that  all  these  ladies  fair, 
Who  shrink  and  shriek  if  they  do  see  one  drop 
Of  blood,  will  give  their  hands,  and  eke  their  hearts, 
To  wed  the  biggest  butcher  of  us  all. 

Lady  Alice.     Most  true,  Sir  Knight,  for  we,  in  truth, 

are  weak ; 

So  weak  of  body,  and  I  fear,  of  head, 
We  seek  protection  from  the  strong  and  brave. 

Sir  Mar.     Would  you  could  think  me,   lady,   strong 
and  brave ! 

Lady  Alice.     That  is  your  fair  repute   abroad,   good 
friend, 


196  A  King's  Love. 

No  man  may  question  that  and  live  at  all. 
What  care  you  then  for  my  poor  thoughts  ? 

Sir  Mar.     Bluntly,  then,  I  'd  make  my  heart  and  arm 
Your  strong  protectors.     Nay,  hear  me  out, 
As  best  I  may,  for  I  am  rude  of  speech; 
No  courtier,  lady,  breathing  silken  words, 
My  voice  was  roughened  to  the  roar  of  fights; 
My  hand  made  hard  by  brand  and  sword  and  lance, 
Where  man  meets  man  to  struggle  unto  death. 
I  love  thee,  Lady  Alice — there,  it's  out! 
I  think  of  thee  by  day,  Pardi !    of  nights; 
I  can  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  thee,  dame. 

Alice.     It  is  not  well,  Sir  Marmaduke,  to  speak 
Me  thus.     Your  words  are  insults  in  this  house 
Where  I  am  ward  of  Mistress  Shore. 

Sir  Mar.     Be  not  so  hasty,  dame,  but  hear  me  out. 
I  offer  thee  my  heart  and  hand  and  all  I  do  possess. 
Is  it  insult  then  to  call  thee  wife — 
My  Lady  Woodville  ? 

Lady  Alice.     I  do  beseech,  my  friend,  you  pardon  me, 
That  I  mistook  your  wooing ;  I  thank  you  now 
For  compliment  so  courtly.     But  I  am 
Far  too  young  for  so  much  honor. 
I  'm  scarce  fifteen,  Sir  Knight,  and  alas ! 
There  lies  between  us  two  a  grief  so  wide 
No  love  may  bridge  it  over. 


A  King's  Love.  197 

Sir  Mar.     But  if  I  find  that  bridge,  sweetheart,  will  you 
Trust  to  my  guidance  and  come  over  to  me  ? 
What  is  this  chasm  that  I  can  not  see? 

Lady  Alice.     They  call  me  Lady  Alice,  and  I  'm  told 
Am  daughter  of  a  knight  who  died  in  war 
Against  his  king,  and  so  lost  life  and  all. 
Before  1  can  remember  Mistress  Shore 
Did  make  provision  for  me, 
And  as  a  mother  I  have  clung  to  her. 

• 

Sir  Mar.  Now,  speak  me  fair  and  say  you  ill  strive 
to  love. 

Lady  Alice.     Give  me  space  to  think. 

(Enter  WHITHOLD  unpercetved.) 

Sir  Mar.  I  ask  no  more ;  now  bid  me,  love,  to  do 
Some  desperate  deed  that  I  may  prove  my  love. 

Lady  Alice.     I  have  true  proof  in  loving  thee. 

(SiR  MARMADUKE  is  about  to  kiss  ALICE,  when  WHITHOLD 
drops  his  bauble  between  them.) 

Sir  Mar.     Knave,  I  have  a  mind  to  crack  thy  skull ! 

Whithold.  A  riddle — a  riddle — why  is  that  an  empty 
threat  ? 

Sir  Mar.     Go  to.     I  have  no  mind  for  riddles  ! 

Whithold.  Which  means  he  hath  a  mind — a  mind  to 
crack  my  skull.  Now,  lady,  solve  my  riddle.  Why  was 
that  an  empty  threat  ? 


198  A  King's  Love. 

Lady  Alice.  For  that  it  had  no  meaning,  good  Whithold, 
It  was  empty  of  intent. 

Whithold.    Fair,  very  fair,  but  not  the  thing — try  again. 

Lady  Alice.     Alas,  I  can  not. 

Whithold.  Then  learn,  the  threat  was  empty,  for  that  the 
skull  he  would  have  cracked  is  empty.  But  give  me 
thanks,  I  stopped  thy  dalliance,  for  the  handsome  Duke  of 
Gloucester  and  the  liberal  Lord  De  Greville,  but  now  dis- 
mounted at  the  portal  and  would  have  been  an  audience 
to  your  cooing. 

Lady  Alice.     I  take  my  leave,  Sir  Marmaduke. 

Whithold.     By  my  Lady,  but  you  can  not. 

Lady  Alice.     And  why  not  ? 

Whithold.  Take  your  leave  ?  Why  all  he  has  of  mind 
and  heart  you  carry  with  you.  T'will  not  fatigue  you 
much. 

Lady  Alice.  Saucy  knave,  it  were  ill  manners  to  say 
you  lie. 

(Exit  LADY  ALICE.) 

Whithold.  Since  when  hath  it  been  ill  mannered  to  lie 
with  a  lady  ? 

Sir  Mar.     Look  you,  good  jester,  you  may  jibe  these 

courtiers 

As  you  will,  but  give  me  space,  for  I  am  quick  at 
Blows,  and  brook  no  insult.    Take  my  measure,  knave. 

Whithold.     I  did,  Sir  Knight,  when  the  French  count  in 


A  King's  Love.  199 

tournament  last  spring  did  hurl  thee  to  the  dust.     Thou 
measurest  five  feet  ten. 

Sir  Mar.     Fool,  the  fault  was  in  my  steed. 
Why  comest  here  between  me  and  my  Lady  Alice  ? 

Whithold.    Thy  wit  is  halting  as  thy  horse,  brave  knight. 
Where  find  you  lovers  that  folly  comes  not  between  ? 

Sir  Mar.     But  you  did  lie.     The  Duke  of  Gloucester 
Comes  never  to  the  house  of  Mistress  Shore. 
(Enter  DUKE  and  DE  GREVILLE.) 

Whithold)     Then  thy  eyes  must  fail  thee  as  did  thy 

horse, 
For  see  him  here. 

Duke.     (To  pages.)     Say  to  Mistress  Shore  the  Duke 

of  Gloucester 
And  the  Lord  de  Greville  are  in  waiting. 

(Exit  PAGE.     Exit  SIR  MARMADUKE.) 

De  Greville.     This  is  not  to  my  liking,  Duke. 

Duke.     There  are  few  things,  my  lord,  upon  this  earth 
Fashioned  to  our  liking',  else  we  'd  be 
Content  below,  nor  long  for  heaven. 

De  Greville.     It  shames  me,  duke,  that  I,  a  baron, 
A  peer  of  England,  should  come  here  to  bow 
Before  a  harlot,  pleading  for  my  rights. 

Duke.     Hush,  hush,  my  lord,  these  walls  have  ears ; 
The  trees  about  here  bear  the  strangest  fruit, 
And  many  a  tall  fellow  lies  shorter 


200  A  King's  Love. 

By  a  head  for  words  less  sharp  than  these. 
The  king,  my  brother,  hedges  in  his  rose 
With  ugliest  sort  of  thorns. 

De  Greville.      Time  was  when   England's  king   was 

hedged  about 
By  noble  hearts  of  barons  brave — 

(WHITHOLD    blows  his  penny  whistle;    DE    GREVILLE 

starts?) 
What's  that? 

Duke.     (Laughing?)      Naught,   De  Greville,   but    our 

jester  here, 
Piping  like  a  shepherd  to  a  startled  ram. 

De  Greville.     He  should  be  hanged. 

Duke.     Most  likely. 

De  Greville.     She  lets  us  wait,  that  we  may  feel  her 

power. 

S'cat,  it  angers  me  to  see  this  beggar  ride 
Above  her  betters  with  such  insolence. 
I  could    cuff  her  now.     (WHITHOLD  whistles  again; 
GREVILLE  starts. 

Duke.     Nay,  do  the  devil  justice,  good  my  lord, 
There  is  no  ostentation  in  the  dame ; 
She  might  have  titles,  palaces,  and  lands — 
Our  majesty  is  liberal  to  his  loves ; 
But  she  declined  them  all,  and  wisely  so. 
Unpainted  power  she  prefers  to  shams 


A  King's  Love.  201 

O'er  guilded.     Power  is  safe,  and  to  the  wise 
As  sweet,  when  least  offensive.     She  remains 
Plain  Mistress  Shore.     And  lo,  these  many  years 
Has  governed  England  in  her  cunning  way. 
(Aside.)     If  I  can  strike  her  down  I  will, 
For  mine  own  better  purpose. 

De  Greville.     What  can  his  majesty  discover  in 
A  thing  so  low  and  common  as  this  woman 
To  fascinate  and  hold  him  ?     (WHITHOLD  whistles^) 

Duke.     I  cry  you,  mercy ;  but  you  do  mistake, 
As  do  the  common  herd  who  call  her  witch. 
She  's  most  uncommon,  rest  assured,  my  lord. 
When  first  the  king  beheld  her  was  when  she 
Stole  to  his  presence  in  the  hour  of  night, 
To  tell  of  Warwick's  treason,  and  he  saw 
The  fairest  being  God  e'er  set  on  end 
To  win  the  hearts  of  men.     She  saved  his  life, 
And  then  his  kingdom;  for  her  graceful  head, 
Woman's  as  it  is,  and  wondrous  fair, 
Holds  well  the  brain  of  rnan.     Hark,  she  comes. 
Now  press  your  suit.     (Aside.)     And  get  your  knuckles 

skinned, 
You  venerable  ass. 

(Doors  back  are  thrown  open,  and  JANE  SHORE  appears 
surrounded  by  suitors  presenting  petitions.') 

Jane  Shore.     I  cry  you,  mercy,  good  my  friends, 


2O2  A  King's  Love. 

I  can  not  hear  you  now ;  for  see  you  not 
His  grace  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  and  with  him 
The  Lord  De  Greville  ?     Welcome  to  my  house, 
Your  grace,  and  you,  my  lord.     My  poor  place 
Is  honored  by  your  presence. 

Duke.     I  salute  you,  dame,  and  well  it  glads  my  heart 
To  see  that  Time,  like  all  your  friends,  awaits 
Tenderly  upon  you. 

Jane  Shore.     A  compliment,  most  courtly  duke,  and 

now 
What  may  I  do  to  woo  you  here  again  ? 

Duke.     The  Lord  De  Greville  seeks  your  favor  to 
His  present  suit,  fair  dame.     He  asks  that  you 
Do  use  your  influence  with  the  king  to  grant 
Him  certain  rights  which  he  '11  explain. 

De  Greville     A  very  simple  matter,  dame.     The  courts 
Do  now  deny  me,  and  I  "ask  the  king 
To  grant  me  power  to  enforce  the  tax 
For  fish  caught  in  the  Thames  and  on  the  coast 
Within  my  own  domain. 

Jane  Shore.     Master  Martin,  you  but  now  did  speak 

me 
Concerning  this  same  right. 

Martin.     An'  may  it  please  your  ladyship,  I  did. 
These  fishermen  are  poor — I  speak  for  them  ; 
If  to  the  king's  levy  be  added  now  the  Greville  tax, 


A  King's  Love.  203 

As  claimed,  it  will  reduce  them  all  to  beggary, 
And  so  destroy  the  trade. 

Jane  Shore.     What  say  you,  Lord  De  Greville  ? 

De  Greville.     I  claim  my  right,  these  knaves  dare  not 

deny. 

What  is  7t  to  me  their  starving  ?     Let  them  starve. 
I  claim  my  right. 

Jane  Shore.     But  if  they  starve  their  fishing  comes  to 

naught. 
Where  then  your  right  ? 

De  Greville.     It  is  a  lame  excuse  the  dogs  set  up 
To  'scape  the  payment  of  my  honest  dues. 

Jane  Shore.     I   fear   not,  my  lord;  I  know  the  class 

perhaps 
Better  than  you,  for  I  was  of  them  once 

De  Greville.     And  what  are  they  to  us— this  rabble 
That  once  wore  iron  rings  about  their  necks 
In  token  of  their  servitude  ? 

Let  them  starve,  I  say.     As  we  progress,  God's  wot, 
They  will  dispute  our  titles  next  and  seize 
Upon  our  castles.     We  must  tramp  them  down. 

Jane   Shore.      God   gave   them   stomachs,    good,    my 

lord; 

Same  as  a  noble's  stomach,  strange  to  say.     He  gave 
Them  brain  to  think  and  beating  hearts  to  love. 
The  cold  does  smite  them  as  it  does  a  lord ; 


204  A  King's  Love. 

The  hot  sun  makes  them  sweat  as  sweats  a  lord. 
And  were  they  trampled  down  to  death,  my  faith, 
The  lord  would  starve,  for  from  their  weary  toil 
Comes  his  white  bread  and  all  he  does  enjoy. 

De  Grevilk.     Why  this  is  monstrous,  Mistress  Shore ; 
You  do  forget  yourself. 

Jane  Shore.     Nay,  I  remember  but  too  well,  my  lord. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  but  you  pray  to  one 
Of  those  you  do  oppress.     It  is  my  shame 
I  'm  not  more  worthy  of  their  confidence. 

De  Greville.     The  shame 's  on  our  side 
That  England's  nobles  should  be  forced  to  sue. 
Who  doth  confess  herself  unfit 
Begs  pardon  of  the  rabble. 

Jane  Shore.     Now  have  a  care;  I  may  be  all  you  say, 
And  yet  your  peer,  my  lord. 
You  can  not  seek  my  house  with  insult,  sir, 
E'en  under  cover  of  his  grace  the  duke, 
And  'scape  the  punishment  due  the  man 
Who  offer^  insult  to  a  woman  anywhere. 

(Cries  of  "the  king,"  "the  king."     The  door  thrown  open. 
Enter  EDWARD  and  suite.) 

King.      How  now,  my  brother,   Gloucester  and   De 

Greville  here, 

Paying  their  court  to  Mistress  Shore? 
Why,  Mistress  Shore,  your  comely  face  is  flushed  ? 


A  King's  Love.  205 

Your  eyes  flash  fire.     What  disturbs  my  friend  ? 

Jane  Shore.     Your  friendship,  good  my  liege ;  that  is 

enough 

To"  justify  the  insult  that  this  lord 
Seeks  mine  own  house  to  offer  me. 

King.     Now,  by  St.  George !  and  have  I  sunk  so  low 
My  crown  gives  no  protection  to  my  friends  ? 
Down,  sir,  down !  and  crave  your  pardon 
Of  Mistress  Shore.     Dost  hear  me,  man? 
But  falter  now  an  instant  and  thy  neck 
And  lands  shall  answer. 

(De  Grevilk  kneels  and  kisses  the  hand  O/"JANE  SHORE.)' 
Now,  Mistress  Shore,  a  few  moments 
Of  thy  cheer  and  company. 

{Exeunt  KING,  MISTRESS  SHORE,  and  all  save  DUKE  OF 
GLOUCESTER,  DE  GREVILLE,  and  WHITHOLD.  DE  GRE- 
VILLE  remains  kneeling,  as  if  stunned.) 

Whithold.     Let  folly  help  thee  up  as  folly  threw  thee 
down. 

De  Grevilk.     (Rising.}     Out,  fool. 

Whithold.     Nay,  be  not  so  hard  upon  thyself. 

Duke.     A  sorry  mess  you  've  made  of  suing,  man. 
By  St.  Paul  but  the  dame  is  sharp. 
I  never  heard  a  tongue  so  like  a  knife ; 
She  cut  thee  deep,  De  Greville. 

De  Greville.     And  I  will  be  avenged. 


206  A  King^s  Love. 

What !  a  De  Greville,  and  thus  put  upon 
By  a  harlot,  a  beggarly  shrew,  a — 

Duke.     Hush,  man — hush ;  you  'd  be  hanged. 

De  Greville.     Was  it  well,  your  grace,  to  lead  me  on 
To  such  indignity  ?     But  I  '11  be  avenged. 

Duke.     Peace,  man; 

'T  was  your  ill  temper  that  you  stumbled  o'er, 
Not  my  advice.     You  should  have  spoke  her  fair. 
Gad,  smiting  a  tigress  in  her  very  den 
Is  no  child's  play. 

De  Greville.     But  I  '11  wring  her  neck.     Vengeance ! 

Duke.     I  prithee,  bark  less, 
That  you  may  have  a  chance  to  bite. 
You  want  revenge. 
Ah !  softly  now,  see  where  it  comes 
In  your  very  hand,  like  to  some  simple  bird, 
That  settles  gently  in  a  woodman's  trap. 

(LADY  ALICE  crosses  the  stage  in  cloak  and  hood,  prayer- 
book  in  hand.) 
Go  you  to  mass,  fair  maid  ? 

Lady  Alice.     Ay,  to  mass,  your  grace. 

Duke.    When  angels  pray  they  pray  not  for  themselves, 
For  they  are  perfect ;  therefore,  in  thy  prayers, 
Fair  angel,  think  of  me,  alack ! 
Ask  pardon  for  my  many  sins. 


A  King's  Love.  207 

Lady  Alice.      And  were  your  life  as  happy  as  your 

speech 
There  were  no  need  of  prayers,  my  lord.     (£xit.') 

Duke.     See  you  that  damozelle  ? 

De  Greville.     My  eyes  are  not  so  dim  but  I  can  see 
So  plain  a  thing  as  that. 

Duke.     So  plain  !     Go  to.     The  fairest  maid 
In  all  the  kingdom,  and  as  shy  as  fair. 

De  Greville.     It  is  the  Lady  Alice.     What  of  her  ? 

Duke.     You  look  upon  the  heart  of  Mistress  Shore, 
Put  your  rough  grasp  ofTthat  and  note 
How  Shore  will  writhe. 

De  Greville.    Her  pet,  her  plaything,  her  adopted  maid ! 
Bah !     There  is  no  good  in  that. 

Duke.     Do  not  deceive  yourself;  she  is  no  pet, 
No  child  adopted.     I  have  seen 
Motherless  women  waste  their  affections 
On  dogs,  on  cats,  on  monkeys,  or  on  birds, 
But  never  yet  upon  a  human  being. 
I  have  watched  with  care  this  Mistress  Shore, 
And  read  her  inmost  soul.     The  tigress  softens 
When  that  cub  is  near.     Be  that  girl  glad, 
And  Mistress  Shore  lights  up  like  to  a  lantern ; 
But  be  she  sad,  and  bright  eyes  darken  then, 
Till  all  the  world  can  read  the  mother  there. 

De  Greville.     A  daughter  by  the  king  ? 


208  A  King's  Love. 

Duke.     Oh,  no;  some  older  love,  I  doubt. 
But  there 's  your  coin  of  vantage,  man 
Seize  her  as  hostage — hold  her  in  your  den 
Till  Shore  capitulates,  which  soon  she  '11  do. 

De  Greville.     It  shall  be  done,  if  in  the  doing,  duke, 
I  die.     I  will  have  vengeance,  duke — I  will — 
And  swiftly,  too.     I  kneel  before  the  world 
To  such  a  thing  as  that !     God's  wounds  ! 
I  '11  be  avenged,  though  forty  kings 
Stood  in  my  way !     (Exit.} 

Duke.     Of  all  the  fearful  beasts  that  range  the  fields 
The  ass  is  one  most  dangerous — to  himself. 
He  serves  my  purpose  well,  for  I  did  woo 
This  dainty  bit  of  maidenhood,  and  got 
My  wooing  sent  me  back  in  scorn.     Alack, 
Next  to  my  love  I  most  enjoy  my  hate. 
How  England  sickens  of  King  Edward's  reign ; 
A  reign  of  slothful  pleasures,  that  denies 
Life  to  the  nobles,  while  the  commons  wax 
Most  insolently  fat.     A  spark  may  set 
The  realm  aflame,  and  I — why  I  may  find 
Some  fitter  work  than  making  silly  love 
To  silly  maids,  who  see  no  line  of  grace 
In  a  crooked  back,  e'en  when  't  is  carried  by 
His  graceless  grace  the  duke.     (Exit.} 
Enter  JANE  SHORE,  SIR  MARMADUKE,  and  WHITHOLD. 


A  King's  Love.  209 

Jane  Shore.     What  sayest  thou,  good  Whithold  ? 

Whithoid.  I  come  to  offer  thee  my  cap  and  bells ;  like- 
wise my  staff  and  all  I  do  possess,  as  the  biggest  fool  in 
all  the  land. 

Jane  Shore.     And  why,  you  jester  ? 

Whithold.  For  thy  folly  that  o'er  shadowed  mine— 
the  purest  folly,  with  no  alloy  of  wit.  Oh,  take  my  place. 
You  need  the  license  of  a  fool  for  better  protection  to  thy 
head. 

Jane  Shore.     Surely  thou  hast  resigned  thy  place, 
For  all  this  tirade  hath  no  spice  of  wit. 

Whithold.  I  had  wit  enough  not  to  offend,  as  thou 
hast  done,  the  ugliest  noble  of  the  realm.  Guard  well 
thy  path,  good  Mistress  Shore. 

Sir  Mar.  When  the  fool  ends,  good  dame,  I  fain 
would  speak  with  thee  concerning  Lady  Alice. 

Jane  Shore.     And  what  of  her  ? 

(A  cry  heard  without,  then  dash  of  arms,  an  alarm  bell,  and 
attendants  rush  on  the  stage.'} 

Jane  Shore.     What  is  the  meaning  of  this  tumult  ? 
Whithold.       (Looking  from    window.}      De  Greville's 
men-at-arms  do  carry  off  the  Lady  Alice  from  your  very 
door. 

Jane  Shore.     To  her  rescue !     Hurry  to  the  king ! 
Aid  me,  Sir  Marmaduke.     My  poor  pet ; 
My  Alice — 
18 


2io  A  King's  Love 

Sir  Mar.     Leave  the  task  to  me ;  it  is  my  right. 
Look  to  your  mistress. 

(JANE  SHORE  staggers  back,  as  if  to  fall  ^} 

Jane  Shore.     Pay  no  heed  to  me  ;  I  need  no  aid  ; 
Help  my  pet,  my  poor  little  pet. 

{Falls  back  in  chair,  as  if  fainting,  as  SIR  MARMADUKE 
exit  hurriedly.)     CURTAIN. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE:  Same  as  in  ist  act.  WHITHOLD  and  MARGERY 
discovered. 

Whithold.  Upon  my  bauble,  Margery,  but  thou  pleas- 
est  the  eye !  Thou  art  fair  to  look  upon.  By  the  mass, 
but  I  believe  thou  art  pleasant  to  handle  and  sweet  to  taste. 

Margery.  Go  to,  Master  Whithold.  You  do  make 
game  of  me. 

Whithold.  Would  I  could  make  game  of  thee;  then 
would  I  capture  thee,  and  eat  thee.  Better  so,  for  the 
lover  that  eateth  not  his  mistress,  lives  to  repent.  Margery — 

Margery.     Master  Whithold. 

Whithold.  Knowest  thou  why  the  giants  eat  their 
virgins  ? 

Margery.     Marry,  I  know  not. 

Whithold.  Marry!  Thou  answereth  without  wit.  Thou 
dost  stumble  on  thy  meaning — marry. 


A  King's  Love.  211 

Margery.     But  why  Master  Whithold  ? 

Whithold.  She  sayeth  marry,  and  yet  asks  me  why ! 
Simple  maid,  sweet  maid !  Would  I  were  a  giant. 

Margery.  But  make  answer;  I  have  much  curiosity 
to  know. 

Whithold.  The  simple  maiden,  the  sweet  maiden  hath 
curiosity.  Yet  is  curiosity  an  evil.  Curiosity  did  tempt 
Mother  Eve  to  taste  the  forbidden  fruit.  Margery,  would'st 
taste  the  forbidden  fruit? 

Margery.  Go  to.  I  ask  thee  why  do  giants  eat  their 
virgins  ? 

Whithold.  Then  learn,  oh  simple  maiden.  The  giants 
eat  the  virgins,  fearing  that  if  the  virgins  live  to  be  shrewish 
wives  they  will  eat  the  giants. 

Margery.     And  yet  thou  wishest  to  be  a  giant. 

Whithold.  It  was  a  silly  wish;  I  fain  would  eat  thee, 
for  thou  art  sweet.  But  I  have  no  fear.  Giants  are  large 
of  body  and  weak  of  mind.  Prefer  I  to  be  small  of  body 
and  large  of  mind.  Margery,  I  would  marry  thee — make 
thee  my  shepherdess,  and  under  the  hawthorne  tree,  in  the 
sweet  summer  time  would  we — 

Margery.     What,  Master  Whithold  ? 

Whithold.  Pipe  to  our  silly  sheep.  Thus  (plows  his 
penny  whistle) — 

Margery.  Pipest  thou  no  better  than  that,  Master 
Whithold,  and  the  sheep  would  run  from  thee.  Heigh,  ho ! 


212  A  King^s  Love. 

Whithold.  Why  sighest  thou,  simple  maiden  ?  It  is  no 
compliment  to  my  powers  of  entertainment. 

Margery.  Alas,  my  good  Mistress  Alice  was,  thou 
knowest,  seized  upon  and  carried  away  but  now  by  armed 
men. 

Whithold.  And,  by  the  mass,  the  armed  men  will  be 
only  too  glad  to  fetch  her  home  again.  Mistress  Shore 
is  angered,  and  the  King  is  vexed.  Rather  would  I  find 
a  pot  of  gold  than  be  in  the  leather  soles  of  these  same 
men-at-arms,  or  their  old  miserly  lord.  Here  comes  Mis- 
tress Shore  and  our  Lord  Cardinal.  Seek  we  the  lord, 
the  lawyer,  or  the  doctor,  when  down  and  troubled — and 
at  no  other  time.  Come,  sweet  Margery.  Beauty  and 
Folly  will  retire  together.  (Exeunt.} 

(Enter  JANE  SHORE  and  CARDINAL  ST.  JOHN.) 

Jane  Shore.  'T  was  good  of  you,  Lord  Cardinal  to  come 
So  quickly  to  me  in  my  dire  distress. 

St.  John.    'T  were  yet  more  strange  for  me  to  hesitate. 
You  would  expect  the  priest — whom  first  you  knew 
A  poor  servant  of  the  Church,  upon  the  Thames, 
Toiling  where  squalid  poverty  held  reign, 
Himself  one  scarce  remove  in  wretchedness 
From  those  he  sought  to  teach— 
You  would  expect,  my  friend,  to  have  that  priest 
Come  quickly  to  you  when  you  called  for  him. 


A  King's  Love.  213 

Why  not  the  Cardinal,  for  to  your  aid 
I  owe  my  most  unworthy  elevation  ? 

Jane  Shore.     That 's  rank  hypocrisy,  my  friend, 
And  all  unworthy  of  you,  for  my  aid 
Were  then  of  smallest  value,  e'en  at  court, 
But  for  your  learning,  zeal,  and  eloquence ; 
And  well  you  have  repaid  my  little  help. 
You  won  my  soul  from  error.     Ah  !  you  know 
I  was  a  Lorrilard,  and  oh,  my  friend, 
This  life  were  madness  now,  but  for  the  hope 
You  hold  before  me  of  God's  forgiveness. 
Much  as  I  love  the  King,  and  much  this  power, 
Through  which  I  do  some  charity,  my  days 
Are  days  of  sorrow,  and  my  nights  run  through 
In  darkening  horror  and  remorse. 

St.  John-.     You  do  not  overestimate  your  sin. 
God  forbid  that  it  I  should  condone. 
Why  suffer  you  at  night,  my  child, 
More  than  by  day  ? 

Jane  Shore.     I  do  not  know,  but  when  the  night  comes 

down, 

And  darkness  woos  to  rest,  I  can  not  rest. 
Sleeping  or  wide  awake,  my  mind  goes  back 
To  that  once  happy  home.     I  see,  I  hear 
My  noble  husband — brave,  kind-hearted  John; 
I  see  the  sunlight  on  the  humble  floor, 


214  A  King's  Love. 

I  hear  the  bird  without,  I  feel  the  peace 

That  lives,  be  e  'er  the  lot  so  hard,  where  life 

Is  innocence — for  lo !  within  its  cot 

In  roseate  dreaming  sleeps  my  little  babe ! 

I  took  the  sunlight  from  that  happy  home, 

I  took  the  warmth  from  out  the  pleasant  hearth, 

I  left  the  door  wide  to  desolation. 

The  house  the  wife  should  guard  is  home  no  more. 

St.  John.     Your  morbid  fancy  does  exaggerate, 
For,  with  your  husband  dead,  the  home  is  dead. 

Jam  Shore.    I  can  not  make  him  dead,  though  true  it  is 
When  banished  from  these  shores,  for  that  he  was 
A  Lorrilard,  for  that  same  cause 
He  took  up  arms  in  France,  and  soon  we  heard 
He  died  in  battle ;  but  I  can  not  make  him  dead ; 
His  living  presence  haunts  me  still  the  same. 
In  every  breath  I  draw  I  feel  him  near; 
I  must  give  up  this  sort  of  life,  or  die. 
I  pray  you,  then,  to  use  your  influence  with 
His  Majesty,  the  King ;  get  his  consent 
To  my  withdrawing  with  my  Alice  now 
To  some  far-distant  convent,  where  to  hide 
Under  another  name,  and  so  to  pass 
From  memory  of  man,  and  sin  and  shame. 

St.  John.     Your  wish  shall  be  my  law,  poor  friend, 
How  fares  your  Alice  ?     I  do  learn  but  now 


A  King's  Love.  215 

The  sinful  old  De  Greville  tore  her  away ; 
And  from  your  very  portal,  as  she  came 
From  mass. 

Jane  Shore.     Too  true,  but  the  brave  Woodville  res- 
cues her 
Within  the  hour. 

(Cries  of  "The  King"      Doors  thrown  open.      Enter 

EDWARD.) 
He  is  here  !     Oh  !  press  him  now. 

King.     You  sent  a  hasty  summons,  Jane. 
Our  Cardinal  here  ! — well  met,  your  grace. 
The  news  we  get  from  Rome,  but  now, 
Is  far  from  pleasant,  for  it  says 
His  Holiness  the  Pope  favors 
Our  enemies  of  France. 

St.  John.     I  feared  as  much. 

King.     You  feared  as  much  !  Now,  by  God's  wounds, 
We  thought  to  have  a  Cardinal 
Whose  power  at  Rome  would  serve  us  well, 
In  matters  such  as  these. 

St.  John.     Your  majesty  would  have  me  speak 
Frankly  in  presence  of  your  minister, 
Mistress  Shore? 

King.    Since  when  has  this  outspoken  grace 
Grown  so  modest  ?    Out  with  it  man, 
Let  insult  have  full  sway.     Our  minister, 


216  A  King's  Love. 

Good  Mistress  Shore — forsooth !     'T  is  rather  bold 
To  gather  up  the  scandal  of  the  court 
And  hurl  it  in  our  teeth.     'T  is  well,  your  grace, 
Your  priestly  petticoats  protect  you. 

St.  John.     And  is  it  well  for  one  so  great, 
So  wise  and  brave  as  Edward  King, 
The  first  unquestioned  King  of  England, 
And  that  through  his  own  prowess,  thus  to  shrink  from 
And  grow  offended  at  the  truth, 
When  uttered  by  a  friend  ? 
For  he  alone  is  brave,  who  dares  to  face — 
And  face  it  calmly — an  unpleasant  truth. 

King.     I  beg  your  pardon — I  was  vexed ; 
Then  tell  me  plainly  as  you  will, 
What  is  the  ill  that  shadows  us  at  Rome  ? 

St.  John.     'T  is  feared  you  've  lost  your  zeal,  iny  liege, 
For  holy  church.     You  have,  of  late, 
Pardoned  those  wicked  heretics, 
The  Lorrilards,  and  it  is  known  at  Rome — 
A  truth  I  may  not  contradict — 
The  influence  that  brought  this  ill  about, 
Is  sinful  in  itself,  a  scandal  too, 
His  Holiness  may  not  favor. 

King.     Now,  by  my  crown,  I  swear — 
Jane    Shore.      My    liege — Edward — My    King — hear 
me! 


A  King's  Love.  217 

This  good  man  speaks  the  truth ; 
I  pray  you  patiently  to  weigh  his  words, 
For  there  is  wisdom  in  them — nay,  my  King, 
Behind  them  lie  grave  dangers  to  your  state ; 
I  see  them  gathering,  dark  and  ominous. 

King.     I  am  Edward  Plantagenet  and  have  no  fear ; 
For  that  I  have  no  fear  am  I  a  king — 
The  first  unquestioned  King  of  England, 
As  thou  sayest  truly.     You  seek  to  come 
Between  me  and  my  love.     She  saved  my  life 
And  risked  her  own,  when  friends  were  few,  your  grace, 
And  slow  to  act.     To  her  wise  head  I  owe 
Since  then,  the  quiet  of  my  reign.     Go  now, 
And  tell  his  holiness,  the  Pope,  that  she 
Is  Queen — my  Queen — and  here  I  do  defy 
France,  Spain,  and  Burgundy  combined, 
And  I  will  see  this  England  wet  with  blood 
Before  I  brook  such  insult  as  this  act 
Of  insolent  interference. 

(CARDINAL  moves  as  if  to  leave.) 

Jane  Shore.     Stay,  your  grace. 
Is  this  the  recompense,  my  King, 
For  my  poor  love  and  service  ?     Think — 
You  do  not  put  yourself,  but  me,  in  front 
To  meet  the  scorn,  the  biting  scorn,  the  wrath 
Of  all  the  world,  and  I  am  but  a  woman ; 
19 


218  A  King's  Love. 

No  king  for  men  to  fear,  but  weak  and  helpless. 

Ah !  good,  my  King,  let  me  go  hence 

To  some  obscure  retreat,  where  I  may  pray 

Forgiveness  for  my  sins,  and  heaven's  aid 

For  you.     'T  is  for  your  good,  and  oh,  my  King, 

For  mine,  for  I  am  sick  at  heart 

And  weary  of  this  strife ;  I  can  not,  dare  not 

Bear  it  more. 

St.  John.     My  liege,  I  take  my  leave.     You  have,  oh, 

King, 

In  this  fair  friend,  the  wisest  counsellor, 
And  in  this  last  request  the  crown 
Of  all  her  good  advice.     (Exit.) 

King.     You  weary  of  me,  Jane  ? 

Jane  Shore.     Ah  !  No,  my  King,  I  weary  of  the  load 
That  I  have  carried,  lo  these  many  years. 

King.     A  load — What  load  ? 

Jane  Shore.     Of  sin  and  shame. 

King.     Is  it  not  brightened  by  my  love  ?     For  thine 
Would  I  commit  much  sin,  my  Jane. 
Nay,  do  I  not  carry  much  the  larger  part  ? 
My  spouse,  Elizabeth,  and  her  pious  friends 
Leave  me  scant  peace  of  mind,  or  rest 
Of  body  either.     You  have  no  husband 
To  snarl  and  carp,  and  so  to  make  the  home 
More  dismal  than  it  was. 


A  King's  Love.  219 

Jane  Shore.     So  long  as  I  could  serve  you  by  my  love, 
My  love  was  at  your  service.     Now  't  is  changed. 
I  am  a  burden.     Your  enemies 
Wax  strong  and  insolent,  and  all 
Because  of  our  relation.     Ah !  let  me  go, 
My  King. 

King.     Yes,  for  a  little  while,  we  will  deceive 
The  knaves,  and  have  it  widely  blown  about, 
That  you  have  taken  refuge  in  a  convent,  Jane. 
Ah  !  as  I  rode  hither,  my  good  brother, 
The  Duke  of  Gloucester,  in  De  Greville's  half, 
Asked  me  the  hand  of  Alice,  for  it  seems 
The  miser  is  infatuated  with  the  maid, 
That  he,  like  to  another  Pluto,  carried  off. 

Jane  Shore.     Edward,  my  master,  you  will  give  denial 
To  this  montrous  thing. 

King.     And  why  should  I  refuse  ?    The  girl 's  in  luck  ; 
My  Lord  De  Greville  is  old  and  miserly. 
Avarice  has  made  him  rich,  old  age,  i'  faith, 
Leaves  him  scant  time  to  hoard  his  gains,  and  then 
He  '11  leave  the  wench  a  widow — handsome,  young, 
And  merry  too — for  some  gallant  to  love. 

Jane  Shore.     Edward,  my  King,  have  I  asked  much  of 

you, 
In  all  these  years  of  loving  servitude  ? 

King.     Asked  naught,  my  Jane.     You  might  have  had 


220  A  King's  Love. 

For  asking,  titles,  wealth,  and  station ; 
But  you  put  these  away,  remaining  here 
Plain  Mistress  Shore. 

Jane  Shore.     And  then,  at  last,  I  ask  a  little  thing — 
Give  me  my  Alice. 

King.     Against  the  girl's  own  good  ?   Now,  sweetheart, 

pause ! 

There  is  not  a  daughter  of  the  noblest  house 
In  all  the  land,  but  would  accept 
And  think  herself  most  fortunate. 
He's  rich  and  noble— short  of  life — 
A  few  years  and  the  wife 's  a  widow,  puss. 

Jane  Shore.     Each  year  an  age  of  torture ; 
Each  year  an  age  of  degradation  and  abuse. 
We  sell  to  servitude  her  bloom  of  youth ; 
We  bargain  off  her  innocence, 
Her  loving  trust  in  human  life, 
And  think  to  recompense  in  gold 
The  loss  of  all  that  makes  our  life  so  precious. 

King.    God's  wot,  but  this  is  troublesome !    Why,  Jane, 
1  did  offend  this  baron  grievously, 
When  I  made  him  to  kneel  before  the  grinning  court 
And  humbly  sue  for  pardon  at  your  feet. 
There  's  discontent  throughout  the  land, 
It  simmers  to  a  boil.     One  flash  the  more 
May  set  the  cauldron  boiling, 


A  King's  Love.  221 

When  Warwick  fell,  the  brain  went  out, 
But  left  the  life,  and  fangs,  and  poison. 
These  Barons  are  not  wise,  but  well  they  know 
That  instigated  by  the  Church  at  Rome, 
All  Europe  gathers  to  a  bloody  war  with  us. 
I  must  be  prudent,  and  my  little  minister 
Will  not  throw  troubles  in  my  way. 
I  must  appease  De  Greville. 

Jane  Shore.     Ah,  Edward,  my  loved  King,  you  do  not 

know 

The  sacrifice  you  ask  ?     I  '11  go  my  ways, 
Give  all  that 's  left  of  life  to  solitude 
And  prayers — but  leave  me  Alice; 
Good  my  King — 

(Noise  without — Enter  SIR  MARMADUKE  and  ALICE.) 

Sir  Mar.     Mistress  Shore,  I  here  restore  your  ward, 
All  safe  and  well — a  little  ruffled,  dame, 
As  a  poor  bird  would  be  that  but  escapes 
An  ugly  beak  and  claw.     Your  majesty. 

King.     Now  man,  who  made-thee  sheriff,  and  gave 

thee 
The  right  to  interfere  in  this  ? 

Sir  Mar.     Your  Majesty,  when  on  the  field 
Of  Gladsmoor,  sire,  you  dubbed  me  knight, 
And  made  it  my  duty  to  protect  the  weak, 
And,  wherever  found,  attack  the  wrong. 


222  A  King's  Love. 

Pardon,  your  majesty,  when  we  possessed 
With  little  trouble  Lord  De  Greville's  house, 
I  caught  the  man  escaping  with  these  papers. 
I  choked  them  from  him,  for  he  seemed  to  care 
More  for  the  papers  than  the  maid. 
My  fair  betrothed  tells  me,  for  she  reads, 
These  be  of  grave  importance  to  your  majesty.     (Gives 
papers.)     * 

Jane  Shore  (embracing  Alice) . 
My  little  one — my  precious— and  cruel  men 
Would  take  thee  from  me. 

Lady  Alice.    Right  glad  was  I,  dear  mistress,  to  escape. 
I  feared  no  one  would  dare  to  rescue  me. 
But  there  is  treason  in  that  gloomy  house ; 
The  Duke  of  Gloucester — 

Jane  Shore.     Hush  !  my  child. 

King.     (To  Marmaduke  and  Alice.)     Give  me  leave,  I 

have  a  word 

With  Mistress  Shore.     (Sir  Marmaduke  and  Alice  exeunt.) 
This  treason  is  more  forward  than  I  thought. 
Here  is  a  letter  from  our  enemy  of  France, 
And  here 's  a  list  of  traitors  covering  all  the  land, 
And  here  a  compact  duly  signed. 
De  Greville  knows  I  have  these.     While  I  speak 
Doubtless  the  horde  is  rising.     Well  for  us 
We  got  such  timely  warning. 


A  King's  Love.  223 

Jane  Shore.     De  Greville  should  not  know  you  are 

advised. 

Send  Hastings  to  him  quickly  to  consider  his  request 
As  if  no  papers  ever  reached  your  hand. 
Then  to  the  Tower  speedily  consign  the  men 
This  compact  names. 

King.     Wise  little  head,  you  counsel  well. 
If  we  are  not  too  late — 

(Enter  from  balcony  JOHN  SHORE.) 
What  means  this  bold  intrusion  ? 

John  Shore.    That  is  a  question,  King,  I  well  might  ask, 
If,  in  the  fiction  of  the  law,  a  wife 
Remains  a  husband's  property,  his  home 
A  castle. 

King.     Who  are  you,  man,  that  like  a  thief 
You  steal  over  the  wall  into  our  presence? 

John  Shore.     Your  guard  denied  me  entrance  at  the 

door, 

So  I  made  bold  to  climb  the  wall,  my  liege. 
And  for  my  rough  intrusion  here,  I  beg 
Pardon  of  your  majesty. 

King.     Who  are  you,  man  ?     What  is  your  will  ? 

John  Shore.     Ask  that  woman. 

Jane  Shore.     I  do  not  know  him,  sire. 

John  Shore.     And  have  my  whitened  locks  and  sunken 
eyes, 


224  A  King's  Love. 

My  cheeks  so  channeled  by  my  bitter  tears, 

My  form  so  bent  by  load  of  misery, 

Have  these  so  altered  me  you  know  me  not  ? 

My  liege,  I  am  a  hated  Lorrilard 

But  lately  pardoned,  and  to  the  scorn  of  men 

I  'm  known  as  Shore — John  Shore — 

The  husband  of  a  wife  used  by  the  King. 

Xing.     And  do  you  seek  that  wife,  old  man  ? 

John  Shore.     Nay,  my  liege.    That  wife  to  me  is  dead. 
She  has  been  dead  to  me  these  many  years. 
I  want  no  rotting  corpse  to  call  my  wife, 
For  God  dissolves  the  marriage  tie  in  death. 
Death  enters  with  corruption.     My  wife  is  dead. 

King.     What  do  you  seek  here  then  ? 

John  Shore.     I  come  to  claim  my  child,  my  Alice. 
Her  I  would  take  from  out  this  charnel  house 
To  my  poor  home.     A  dreary  place,  O  King, 
And  desolate,  but  pure. 

King.     Why,  mistress,  how  is  this?     His  child  your 
child? 

Jane  Shore.     He  speaks  but  truth,  my  liege.     I  could 

not  bear 

My  child  should  know  her  mother  as  she  is, 
I  brought  her  up  in  ignorance  of  my  right 
But  not  my  love.     The  father  hath  the  better  claim. 


A  King's  Love.  225 

I  pray  you  leave  to  us  this  woeful  scene 
Of  settlement. 

King.     That  as  you  will,  for  on  my  soul 
I  have  work  enough  on  hand.     Adieu.     {Exit.) 

Jane  Shore.     I  beg  you,  sir,  to  stand  apart 
But  for  a  little  space,  that  I  may  say  some  words 
To  this  dear  child,  who  needs  persuasion,  sir, 
To  make  her  leave  me. 

John  Shore.     Be  brief.     Your  words  are  poison  to  her. 
Your  very  presence  is  a  taint. 

Jane  Shore.     I  know  't  is  so  and  humbly  crave  consent. 

(She  goes  up  the  stage — she  calls  Alice — enter  Alice.) 
My  child,  here  Js  one  who  comes  to  us  as  from  the  dead, 
Who  has  the  right  to  take  you  from  me. 
Lady  Alice.     Sir  Marmaduke  ? 
Jane  Shore.     No,  my  poor  girl — more  potent  than  a 

lover. 

One  heaven  made  your  guardian  in  your  birth ; 
Your  parent,  child. 

Lady  Alice.     Never  have  I  known  but  one  to  love, 
Who,  loving  me  with  tender,  patient  care, 
Has  made  me  all  her  own. 

{Seeks  to  embrace  her.     JANE  SHORE  restrains  her.) 
Jane  Shore.     You  make  my  test  too  hard.     Be  patient 

child, 
And  hear  me  out.     It  is  my  wish — nay,  more, 


226  A  King's  Love. 

'Tis  my  command — that  you  should  go 

With  this  good  gentleman,  who  has  a  claim 

Far  better,  higher  than  mine  own.     (Aside.)     For  when 

I  ceased 
To  be  a  wife,  I  ceased  to  be  a  mother. 

Lady  Alice.     Madam,  I  do  not  comprehend. 

Jane  Shore.     Ah !  may  you  never  know  the  anguish  of 

the  knowing. 

I  must  be  brief  or  fail.     When  you  were  but  a  babe 
It  was  decreed  that  children  of  the  heretics 
Should  be  taken  from  their  parents  and  reared 
Within  the  bosom  of  the  mother  Church. 
To  save  you  from  that  fate,  your  mother,  child, 
Did  give  you  to  a  friend,  a  Catholic  friend. 
In  all  the  cruel  ills  that  followed  them, 
Robbed,  banished,  and  abused,  the  scorn  of  men, 
The  wrath  of  government,  and  the  cruel  persecutions 
Of  an  outraged  church,  the  parents  knew 
That  you  were  safe,  and  took  comfort  in  the  knowledge. 
It  was  long  after  when  I  found  you,  child, 
And  took  you  to  my  home  and  heart, 
To  see  you  grow  to  womanhood, 
Pure  amid  impurity.     I  took  you  up  an  angel, 
And  an  angel  now  I  give  you  to  your  father. 

Lady  Alice.     Ah!  do  not  send  me  from  you.     I  do 

know 


A  King's  Love.  227 

But  one  to  love.     You  are  to  me  a  mother — 
My  mother.     (Embraces  her.) 

Jane  Shore.  My  child !  my  child  !  Ah  me !  but  this  is  hard. 
In  parting  with  you  I  do  part  with  life, 
And  all  is  dark  before  me.     Go,  my  child, 
And  put  your  cloak  about  you,  for  'tis  cold — 
Ah !  bitter  cold — without. 

(Exit  LADY  ALICE.     During  this  scene  JOHN    SHORE 
gradually  draws  near.) 

John  Shore.     I  never  thought  to  call  you  by  that  name 
Made  sacred  by  the  Lord.     But  he  forgives, 
Why  should  I  not  forgive  ?    Jane,  come  to  me. 
We  will  forget  the  past.     My  home  is  poor 
And  humble,  yet  it  is  a  home.     There  you 
In  penance,  and  we  both  in  prayer,  may  find 
Forgiveness  for  the  guilty  past. 

Jane  Shore.     Ah  !  no,  my  friend,  it  may  not  be. 
For  I  have  lived  in  peace  with  her 
For  that  she  did  not  know  me.     Now 
To  stand  by  my  mine  own  hearth,  and  feel 
The  horrors  of  a  tainted  mother,  feel 
The  pitying  anguish  of  her  loving  heart, 
To  have  you  suffer  all  the  scorn  of  men 
Because  like  Christ  you  could  forgive 
An  erring  wife — ah  !  no.     The  torture  were  too  great. 
I  can  not — I  can  not. 


228  A  King's  Love. 

John  Shore.     You  bear  the  cross,  yet  shrink  in  mean- 
est fear 

From  the  great  sacrifice  through  which  to  win 
Forgiveness  of  your  loathsome  guilt.     Live  on, 
Live  on  in  guilded  rottenness. 

Jane  Shore.     Do  not  curse  me,  John. 

John  Shore.     Christ  said,  let  him  without  sin  cast 
The  first  stone.     I  without  sin  do  cast 
These  stones  at  thee, 

Thou  tainted  mother  and  adulterous  wife, 
Thou  whited  sepulcher,  thou  living  lie ! 

Jane  Shore.     Oh !  mercy,  John.     Have  mercy. 

John  Shore.     The  mercy  that  thou  gavest  me 
I  do  return  with  interest. 

By  the  blighted  hearthstone  and  the  ruined  home, 
I  lift  my  voice  to  God  and  pray  for  vengeance. 
When  thine  awful  hour  comes,  as  come  it  must, 
May  all  my  blasted  years  of  bitterness  and  shame, 
May  the  long,  slow  agony  of  a  broken  heart, 
Be  crowded  into  seconds  of  thy  dying  life. 
By  God  forgotten,  may  thy  hell-haunted  soul 
Sink  hopeless  in  thy  agony. 

Jane  Shore  (who  has  sunk  to  the  floor  during  this  curse 
rises  wearily.}      'T  were   better  you    had    left  me 
dead. 
Your  words  are  blows  that  stun,  and  that  is  all. 


A  King's  Love.  229 

You  have  no  curse  more  awful  than  my  conscience, 
No  doom  more  dreadful  than  to  be  myself. 
When  your  life  was  spared,  my  fate  was  sealed. 
My  sin  has  found  me  ere  I  did  confess  my  sin 
And  got  forgiveness  in  repentance.     Now 
Shall  I  hear  ringing  in  my  hollow  ears, 
Too  late,  too  late,  forever. 

John  Shore.     Amen,  amen,  amen. 
Jane  Shore.     You  should  have  spared   your  impreca- 
tions, 

For  they  will  settle  on  your  own  unhappy  head. 
Vengeance  is  mine,  sayeth  the  Lord, 
The  blows  you  strike  reach  to  your  heart, 
For  we  are  one  whatever  fate  betide, 
And  from  this  out,  the  pale  affrighted  face 
Of  her  you  love  will  haunt  you  till  you  die. 
She  will  walk  with  you  in  your  walks, 
Sit  at  your  board,  sleep  in  your  bed, 
And  the  poor  face  in  pitiful  appeal 
Will  cause  your  heart  more  anguish 
Than  your  wrath. 

(Enter  LADY  ALICE  in  cloak  and  hood.) 
Ah !  this  is  bitter,  my  child. 

Lady  Alice.    My  mother;!    (They  embrace.    JOHN  SHORE 
madly  tears  LADY  ALICE  away  and  drags  her  to  the  door.) 

CURTAIN. 


23°  ^  King's  Love. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE:  Banqueting  hall  in  house  of  JANE  SHORE;  a  table 
spread  as  for  a  feast.  On  the  right  a  smaller  table  with  silver 
pitcher  and  two  goblets.  Deep  recesses  or  arched  ways  on  both 
sides.  WHITHOLD  and  MARGERY  discovered. 

Margery.    What  say  you,  Master  Whithold  ? 

Whithold.     That  the  government  sups  here  to-night. 

Margery.  By  my  troth,  but  it  is  a  small  supper  for  so 
large  a  body. 

Whithold.  The  government,  Margery,  stands  six  feet 
two  in  its  stockings,  and  is  well  proportioned. 

Margery.     You  mean  His  Majesty  the  King? 

Whithold.  His  Majesty  the  King,  since  the  death  of 
Warwick,  King  Maker,  is  the  government  of  England. 

Margery.     I  do  see  thy  meaning. 

Whithold.  Much  praise  to  thy  feminine  sagacity;  and 
yet,  if  thou  seest  my  meaning,  it  is  more  than  I  see.  For 
if  the  truth  could  be  told,  without  getting  the  truth  in  the 
stocks,  the  government  of  England  is  not  his  most  sacred 
Majesty,  but  her  most  pleasing  grace,  Mistress  Shore. 

Margery.  So  it  is  said ;  and  yet  she  has  not  power  to 
retain  sweet  Lady  Alice,  who  is  gone  from  us  this  day. 

Whithold.  And,  is  it  true,  fair  Margery,  the  supposed 
dead  heretic,  John  Shore,  took  her  home  ? 


A  King's  Love.  231 

Margery.  Aye,  good  Master  Whithold,  and  with  much 
weeping.  And  Sir  Marmaduke  was  much  angered;  while 
Mistress  Shore  is  as  pale  as  my  smock. 

Whithold.  Pale  as  thy  smock,  good  Margery,  is  well 
said.  Faith  now,  can  I  see  Mistress  Shore's  very  paleness. 
And  the  King,  Margery,  sups  here  to-night,  and  Lord  De 
Greville  to  conclude  differences,  doth  furnish  the  enter- 
tainment, Margery. 

Margery.     Master  Whithold. 

Whithold.  Were  I  Mistress  Shore,  I  should  not  care 
to  eat  Lord  De  Greville's  viands,  nor  drink  of  his  wine. 
Beware  of  the  enemy  bearing  gifts.  Thus  did  the  Greeks 
give  to  the  Trojans  a  wooden  horse,  and  the  wooden  horse 
gave  birth  to  armed  men,  that  did  burn  and  kill. 

Margery.     A  most  scurvy  trick. 

Whithold.  A  joke  on  the  Trojans.  Give  Mistress 
Shore  a  hint  to  neither  eat  nor  drink.  If  the  Lord  De 
Greville,  who  holdeth  so  fast  to  a  coin  that  the  coin  doth 
cry  out,  cares  to  poison  the  government  of  England,  good 
Margery,  let  him  have  his  will ;  but  I  would  fain  see  your 
mistress  escape  acquaintance  with  that  dame,  we  all  know 
too  well,  called  Misfortune. 

Margery.  That  I  will;  for  let  the  world  say  what  it 
may,  she  is  a  good,  kind  mistress. 

Whithold.     Misfortune  ? 


232  A  King's  Love. 

Margery.     No,  indeed;  Mistress  Shore.     But  you  are 
sad  to-day,  good  Master  Whithold. 

Whithold.  Yea,  verily;  I  am  down  as  a  chicken-cock 
on  a  damp  day,  as  full  of  spleen  as  a  sick  dog,  and  as 
suspicious  and  irritable  as  a  jealous  wife.  Now  could  I 
prophesy  evils  to  the  land,  of  sudden  deaths,  civil  dis- 
orders, and  great  wars.  Now  harken — 
When  friars  fat  rich  food  deny ; 

When  lordly  bishops  drink  no  wine ; 
When  merchant's  wives  alone  do  lie; 
And  Hebrews  eat  forbidden  swine; 
When  misers  give  the  poor  their  gold; 
When  honest  men  are  put  in  place; 
And  when  to  maidens  truths  are  told ; 

When  lovers  lie  not  to  the  face ; 
When  bakers  give  to  bread  its  weight ; 

When  tapsters  water  not  good  drink; 
When  honor  serves  the  king  and  state; 
When  women  tell  us  all  they  think ; 
When  thieves  no  longer  purses  steal ; 

When  robber  turns  to  saintly  priest; 
When  honest  traders  honest  deal; 

When  modest  worth  is  not  the  least; 
When  mothers  truly  see  their  young ; 
When  widows  plan  not  to  deceive ; 


A  King  's  Love.  233 

When  scandal  holds  its  busy  tongue; 

Then  will  good  people  cease  to  grieve. — 
And  let  the  final  prayer  be  said; 
For,  on  my  soul,  the  devil's  dead.     Amen. 
(Enter  FRIAR  BUNGAY.) 

(To  Margery  aside.)  Here  is  one,  good  Margery,  who 
will  make  us  sport — Friar  Bungay,  the  court  astrologer. 
Good  even  to  you,  Father  Bungay — an'  thou  readest  the 
stars. 

Bungay.  Yes,  lively  Master  Whithold.  It  is  given  to 
me  to  read  the  stars,  and  in  them  the  destiny  of  men. 

Whithold.  And  many  a  wise  astrologer,  who  reads  the 
stars,  falleth  most  scurvily  in  a  ditch. 

Bungay.  He  who  reads  the  stars  falls  not,  merry  Master 
Whithold. 

Whithold.     Seeth  he  the  ditch  in  the  stars  ? 

Bungay.     Of  a  verity,  my  son. 

Whithold.  Then  are  the  heavens  ditched  ?  Most  vile 
heaven  that  hath  bogs  in  it. 

Bungay.     You  take  not  my  meaning. 

Whithold.  I  will  take  any  thing  of  thee,  friar,  but  thy 
blessing  and  thy  drugs. 

Bungay.     Yet  have  I  cured  many  sick. 

IVhithold.  Of  a  truth ;  for  the  dead  are  cured  of  their 
disorders. 

Bungay.     Go  to,  go  to.     I  would  have  thee  grave. 
20 


234  A  King's  Love. 

Whithold.  Go  to  my  grave  ?  Thanks,  friar  ;  it  serves 
my  purpose  best  to  remain  alive.  Friar,  art  thou  versed 
in  palmistry  ?  Canst  thou  read  in  the  lines  of  the  hand 
the  future,  good  father  ? 

Bungay.  Yea,  verily.  That  is  not  so  deep  an  art  as 
the  language  of  the  stars. 

Whithold.  Look,  then,  upon  my  hand,  good  Friar 
Bungay,  and  see  if  thou  findest  a  rope  or  a  rich  widow. 

Bungay.  Give  me  your  hand,  merry  master,  and  I 
will  make  effort  to  find  short  shrift  or  fair  widow.  (WRIT- 
HOLD  passes  MARGERY'S  arm  under  his  right,  and  presents  her 
hand  to  the  friar?)  Nay,  good  Whithold,  court  jester  to 
the  king;  but  thy  hand  is  soft  and  fair  as  that  of  a  woman, 
and  it  hath  strange  lines.  The  line  of  love  is  much 
broken :  as  if  thou  hast  been  deceiving  and  deceived, 
good  jester;  jilted  and  jilting,  my  jester.  (MARGERY  strug- 
gles, but  WHITHOLD  holds  her};  and  I  see  a  child,  but  never 
a  father.  I  find  no  rope,  nor  yet  a  widow;  but,  my  soul 
to  heaven,  Master  Whithold,  that  is  strange — thou  wilt  die 
in  childbed. 

(MARGERY  breaks  away  and  assaults  FRIAR  BUNGAY." 
She  knocks  off  his  tall  hat,  glasses,  and  wig,  showing  him  to 
be  far  younger  than  he  appeared.} 

Whithold.  A  miracle,  a  miracle !  Father  Bungay, 
thou  art  restored  to  thy  youth  by  the  quick  hand  of  the 
little  witch. 


A  King's  Love.  235 

Bungay.  A  pest  on  thy  pranks.  I  '11  have  thee 
hanged,  Master  Whithold ;  and,  as  for  you,  mistress, 
there  be  stocks  in  the  pillory  for  thy  heels. 

Whithold.  Come,  Margery — come,  fair  Margery ;  thou 
art  a  greater  witch  than  he  a  wizard.  He  did  father  thy 
child,  but  thou  didst  restore  his  youth. 

(Exit  WHITHOLD,  with  MARGERY.  FRIAR  BUNGAY  re- 
arranges his  dress.) 

Bungay.  If  a  man  hath  trouble  come  to  him,  let  him 
be  assured  a  woman  fetches  it,  or  a  woman  sends  it. 
Since  the  day  the  first  woman  listened  to  the  serpent,  and 
set  Adam  to  robbing  an  orchard,  she  hath  been  possessed 
of  the  devil,  and  brings  naught  to  innocent  man,  such 
as  I,  but  mischief. 

(Enter  DE  GREVILLE.) 

De   Greville.      Art   here!      Tis  well.      Now,   listen, 

man: 

This  strumpet,  Shore,  hath  all  our  secrets, 
And  thou,  who  read'st  the  stars,  must  learn  of  me. 
She  holds  a  halter  for  thy  neck,  an  ax  for  mine, 
And  death  to  nearly  all  that's  left 
Of  England's  barons. 

Bungay.     Then,  my  lord,  we  better  get  out  of  this. 

De  Greville.     Tush,  man.     She  hath  not  yet  revealed 
the  plot; 


236  A  King^s  'Love. 

But  holds  our  papers,  like  a  cunning  witch, 
Suspended  o'er  our  heads. 

Bungay.     What,  then,  my  lord  ? 

DC  Greville.     Death,  friar;   death.     The  dead  reveal 

no  plots. 

Hearken  !     The  king  sups  here  to-night, 
lie  hath  invited  us,  which  proves 
He  knows  not  yet  of  our  intent. 
It  is  his  wont,  at  parting  with  the  witch, 
To  pledge  her  health  in  wine.     Her  cup 
Must  hold  that  poison  you  have  brewed, 
That  works  so  deadly  sudden  and 
Leaves  no  trace  behind.     See,  friar, 
To  thy  hand — there  are  the  goblets  and 
The  wine.     See  that  thou  failest  not ; 
Or,  if  you  do,  your  neck's  not  worth  the  hemp. 

Bungay.      Never  fear,  my  lord.      I  live  to  do  your 
bidding. 

De  Greville.     And  die  if  you  but  fail.     Now  go — 
(Exit  BUNGAY.     Enter  QUEEN  ELIZABETH,  disguised.} 
Whom  have  we  here  ? 

Queen.     You  may  well  ask,   De  Greville.     (Showing 
her  face.) 

De  Greville.    The  Queen,  and  in  this  house  and  guise  ? 

Queen.     Yes ;  and  from  this  house  I  do  not  go, 
'Til  I  have  seen  this  witch,     De  Greville, 


A  King^s  Love.  237 

I  fain  would  look  upon  the  power 

That  lives  so  strangely  twixt  my  lord,  and  me, 

His  lawful  wife. 

De  Greville.     But  the  King  comes  here  anon. 
Queen.     Aye  !  aye!  anon,  and  none  too  seldom,  man. 
I  will  find  the  secret  of  this  witchery 
That  shames  our  court.     What  is  the  power 
That  wins  a  king  such  as  our  Edward  was  ? 

Enter  JANE  SHORE. 
Jane  Shore.     Good  even,  Lord  De  Greville.     You  are 

kind 

To  pass  so  soon  our  ugly  differences. 
Whom  have  we  here  ? 

De  Greville.     A  city  dame,  good  mistress,  who  would 

speak, 

She  tells  me,  with  you  alone. 
For  that  I  take  my  leave  a  little  space.     (Exit.) 

Jane  Shore.     I  'm  at  your  service,  dame — what  may  I  do 
To  aid  you  ? 

Queen.     Madam  Jt  is  said  of  you — among 
Our  humble  city  folk — you  do  possess 
Strange  and  mysterious  power  over  the  hearts 
Of  men.     That  by  some  subtle  charm  or  drug 
You  win  all  minds  to  do  your  will, 
And  be  most  happy  in  the  doing. 

Jane  Shore.     In  other  words,  I  am  a  witch? 


238  A  King's  Love. 

Queen,     Even  so.     And  as  I  am  unfortunate, 
Most  unfortunate,  I  make  so  bold 
To  ask  your  aid,  if  you  may  give  it  me. 

Jane  Shore.     I  fear  you  overestimate  my  power. 
What  is  the  ill  you  suffer,  dame  ? 

Queen.     I  have  a  husband  who  did  love  me  once, 
Loved  me  so  well  he  brought  great  trouble 
To  himself — for  I  was  low  of  birth, 
And,  lifting  me  to  share  his  high  estate, 
He  periled  all  he  had.     And  now 
He  cares  naught  for  me— nay,  't  is  worse, 
He  gives  that  to  another  I  should  have, 
And  leaves  me  to  mourn  alone. 

fane  Shore.     Alas !  poor  dame,  the  ill  you  grieve 
Is  common  to  our  race.     When  we  may  find 
Means  to  prevent  the  fever,  stop  the  plague, 
Control  e'en  death  itself,  we  may  escape 
This  sickness  with  the  rest. 

Queen.     You  speak  as  one  who  never  suffered — who 
Never  outwatched  the  stars,  with  hungry  heart, 
Listening  for  steps  that  never  came, 
Or  coming,  brought  more  sorrow  in  their  tread 
Than  tears  of  solitude  and  shame. 
You  can  not  know  the  anguish  of  the  heart 
That  longs  for  love  once  had,  yet  has  no  more. 

Jane  Shore.     The  ill  each  suffers  from  is  life's  great  ill, 


A  King's  Love.  239 

One's  grief  is  measured  by  no  other  grief, 
Selfish,  unreasoning  sorrow  can  not  see 
The  agony  of  others.     Doubtless,  now, 
Good  dame,  you  'd  punish  sorely 
The  object  of  your  faithless  husband's  love. 

Queen:     Marry  would  I. 

Jane  Shore.     And  yet  she  did  not  seek  his  love, 
Nor  track  him  down,  nor  lie  in  wait, 
Nor  beg,  nor  plead,  nor  threaten — worst  of  all 
She  never  sought  to  win  him  by  the  words 
Made  dangerous  in  their  sympathy. 
And  yet  what  punishment  is  hers : 
She  knows  the  day  must  come  when  she 
Will  suffer  like  desertion,  and  the  while 
A  sense  of  guilty  degradation  weighs  her  down. 
The  love  man  gives  his  wife  looks  up, 
Half  love,  half  adoration,  while 
His  guilty  love  looks  down,  and  like 
The  sun's  bright  rays  when  intercepted, 
They  turn  to  shadows  e'er  they  touch  the  earth. 

Queen.     Faith,  Mistress  Shore,  to  hear  you  plead 
One  would  suspect  some  truth  were  told 
In  stories  from  the  court. 

Jane  Shore.     It  is  not  well,  good  dame,  to  seek  my  aid 
And  stab  me  with  your  scorn — and  yet  I  know 
Grief  makes  us  all  unjust,     I  pardon  you, 


240  A  King's  Love. 

And  heaven  knows  if  there  be  one 
Whom  I  have  wronged,  upon  my  knees 
I  'd  beg  forgiveness. 

Queen.     What  of  the  Queen  ? 

Jane  Shore.     Not  of  the  Queen,  but  of  the  wife, 
Men  make  their  Queens,  but  God  alone 
Doth  crown  the  wife — she  sits  a  sovereign  in 
The  peaceful  home — her  throne  the  heart  of  him 
She  calls  her  lord,  her  subjects  her  sweet  babes, 
Her  scepter  the  humility  of  love, 
That  sways  by  softest  yielding. 

Queen.     And  such  a  home  was  mine  until  this  wretch 
Did  come  between  my  lord  and  me.     And  now 
I  promise  you,  if  e'er  she  falls 
Within  my  grasp,  I  '11  be  as  hard 
And  cold  and  pitiless  as  the  axe  itself. 

Jane  Shore.     And  suffer  retribution  for  the  wrong  you 

do; 

Leave  vengeance  to  the  Lord,  who  cares  for  all, 
And  brooks  no  interference. 

Queen.     And  have  you  then  no  charm — no  subtle  drug 
That  I  may  use  to  win  him  back  again  ? 

Jane  Shore.     You  strangely  move  me,   dame,   I  fain 

would  try 

To  aid  you  if  I  could.     Hold,  here  's  a  charm 
To  me  most  precious,  for  it  was  a  mother's  gift, 


A  King's  Love.  241 

(Taking  amulet  from  her  bosom.) 
And  I  have  worn  it  ever  next  my  heart. 
Do  you  so  wear  it,  and  when  your  lord 
After  long  absence  doth  return  again 
Then  press  it  to  your  breast,  't  will  give  you  strength 
To  greet  him  kindly.     This,  good  dame, 
Gives  potent  force  to  this  most  subtle  charm 
That  is  destroyed  by  sullen  looks 
And  ugly  words. 

And,  now,  good  e'en  to  you ; 
When  next  we  meet  I  trust  your  ill 
Will  all  have  passed. 

Queen.    (Going  and  aside.}    When  next  we  meet,  when 

next  we  meet, 

The  witch  hath  put  £  spell  on  me, 
I  'm  in  a  daze,  and  not  myself. 

(The  KING  enters,  and  the  QUEEN  hastily  muffling  her 
face  makes  hurried  exit.) 

King.     Who  was  it,  Jane,  that  hurried  hence 
In  such  unseemly  way.     As  she  did  pass 
I  caught  a  gleam  fierce  as  a  tigress, 
And  shot  like  lightning  at  me  from  her  eyes. 

Jane  Shore.     Naught  but  a  city  dame,  poor  thing. 
She  came  to  me  for  spell  or  drug 
To  win  her  truant  husband  back  again. 

King.     These  women  nurse  their  little  sorrows  till 

21 


242  A  King*s  Love. 

They  swell  to  mountains  in  their  own  esteem. 
A  city  wife,  forsooth,  and  she  hath  griefs 
Like  to  a  Queen.     Well,  wisest  little  friend, 
We  have  invited  the  conspirators, 
At  least  all  those  that  we  could  reach, 
With  pleasant  invitation,  here  to  sup 
With  us  to  night.     They  little  dream 
The  entertainment  that  awaits  them. 

Jane  Shore.     Is  it  not  strange,  my  liege,  that  one  at 

least— 

That  one  De  Greville — does  not  e'en  suspect 
The  storm  that's  brewing.     He  must  surely  know 
You  have  his  tell-tale  papers. 

King.     Not  so,  my  Jane,  for  from  a  spy  I  learn 
He  thinks  you  hold  this  damning  proof 
In  terror  o'er  their  heads. 

(Enter  DE  GREVILLE  and  sundry  other  lords.) 
Welcome,  good  friends,  most  welcome  here. 
Why,  De  Greville,  this  is  kind  indeed, 
You  are  a  Christian  man  to  thus  forgive 
And  put  my  faith  to  blush — the  smitten  cheek 
Is  turned,  that  on  the  other  side 
Good  Mistress  Shore  may  kiss,  not  smite, 
And  no  Judas  kiss,  my  lord. 

De  Greville.     Your  jest  my  liege,  hath  in  it 
Something  of  a  sting. 


A  King's  Love.  243 

King.     Tush,  man — 't  is  but  a  jest,  a  sorry  jest. 
Come,  good  my  lords,  now  gather  round  the  board; 
You  are  most  welcome. 

( They  seat  themselves,  and  as  they  do  so,  a  monk,  in  gown  and 
cowl,  coming  from  the  arched  ways  on  each  side,  places  himself 
behind  each  guest,  while  the  tramp  of  troops'  is  heard  without^ 

King.     Before  you,  gentlemen,  is  the  feast 
Prepared  by  our  De  Greville ;  behind, 
Is  service  of  our  own.     (They  rise.) 
Nay,  keep  your  seats,  it  will  be  long 
Ere  you  may  sup  again.     The  ancients,  lords, 
Were  wont  to  have    at  banquets  such  as  this 
A  grinning,  eyeless  skull,  which  said — 
Laugh  and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow  death. 
You  start ;  this  is  not  well,  for  you,  my  lords, 
Do  hold  in  trust  the  honor  of  old  England. 
To  your  wise  heads  and  patriotic  hearts 
We  look  for  aid  and  comfort  at  all  times. 
And  it  were  ill  for  us  for  you  to  fail, 
Now  that  our  enemies  combine  to  do  us  ill. 
Lord  Anthony  of  Scales,  our  kinsman  too, 
In  whose  behalf  we  periled  once  our  crown, 
May  we  not  trust  in  you  ?     Lord  Dorset,  too, 
Another  kinsman  we  have  favored  much. 
Lord  Willoughby,  we  spared  your  wide  domain, 
When,  through  your  father's  treason,  it  was  lost. 


244  A  King's  Love. 

John  Ratcliffe,  you  did  us  service  once, 

And  by  that  token  should  be  true  as  steel. 

And  the  wise  and  rich  De  Greville  here. 

Why  these  are  friends  we  have  to  sup  with  us; 

You  should  be  joyous,  yet  you  look  disturbed. 

And  can  it  be  we  are  in  error,  lords ; 

Are  your  strange  looks  but  mirrors  of  your  hearts? 

Are  we  surrounded  here  to-night  by  foes, 

Not  friends  ?  We  heard  as  much.     A  little  bird 

Did  whisper  in  our  ears  broad  discontent 

Was  on  the  land,  for  that  we  favors  cast 

On  a  poor  lady,  who,  unlike  you  all, 

Had  served  with  zeal  the  crown,  nor  asked  reward 

For  her  rare  service.     Yet  to-night  you  see 

We  treat  such  whispers  as  vile  slanders. 

You  xio  not  eat  nor  drink.     Why  is  it,  friends, 

You  treat  with  such  discourtesy  our  feast? 

De  Greville.    We  hope,  my  liege,  after  this  mask  is  o'er 
To  eat  with  better  appetites.     (Murmurs  about  the  table.} 

King.     After  this  mask  is  o'er  we  fear,  good  friends, 
You  '11  have  small  need  of  appetites. 

De  Greville.    Now  come  we  to  the  point.    Good  my  liege, 
We  all  are  gentlemen.     Whether  we  live  or  die, 
We  have  a  right  to  treatment  fitting  such.     (Murmurs.) 

King.     Gramercy  man,  but  you  are  hard  to  please ! 
Who  talks  of  dying  at  a  feast  like  this? 


A  King's  Love.  245 

You  all  are  honorable,  sirs,  of  course, 

And  this  a  feast  in  which  to  harmonize. 

Then  fill  your  glasses,  bumpers  all,  we  drink 

To  our  fair  hostess.     Fetch  here  our  wine. 

{During  this  speech  FRIAR  BUNG  AY  steals  in,  poisons  one 
of  the  goblets,  that  WHITHOLD,  watching  hint,  changes.} 

Knaves,  why  do  ye  loiter  ?     Our  winey  at  once. 

(BUNGAY  seizes  the  goblet  and  gives  it  to  the  KING.) 

What,  our  astrologer  turned  a  Ganymede  ? 

This  is  a  jest  indeed !    Why  gentlemen, 

You  will  not  pledge ;  then,  Mistress  Shore,  drink  we — 

Safe  journey  to  the  tower,  and  the  block 

And  comfort  to  them  in  the  land  beyond.     (Drinks.) 

Tush,  loving  subjects,  in  our  hands  we  hold 

Proof  enough  of  treason  to  behead 

A  thousand  such  as  you.     (After  a  pause.) 

Say  to  my  brother  Richard,  Duke  of  Gloucester, 

His  prisoners  are  ready.     (Staggers,  and  clutches  at  the  near- 
est monk.) 

I  am  not  well ;  I  pray  you  bear  me  hence. 

What  pain  is  this  that  clutches  at  my  heart 

And  blinds  my  sight?    Gently,  gently,, friends.     (They  bear 

him  out.) 

Bungay.     (Aside  to  DE  GREVILLE.)    The  jester,  Whit- 
hold  changed  the  cups — 

The  king  hath  not  an  hour  to  live. 


246  A  King^s  Love. 

De  Greville.    'T  's  just  as  well.    In  Gloucester's  hands 
Our  heads  are  more  secure. 

(To  the  company?)     His  Majesty  is  sick  nigh  unto  death, 
And  in  the  name  of  Richard,  Duke  of  Gloucester, 
I  do  arrest  Jane  Shore.     I  call  on  you, 
My  lords,  to  aid  me  in  my  duty. 

(They  gather  hurriedly  about  JANE  SHORE.) 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE:     Westminster.     JANE    SHORE,  SIR    MARMADUKE 
WOODVILLE,  her  advocate  and  guard,  discovered. 

Sir  Marmaduke.     The  papers  that  I  seized  and  gave 

the  King 

Held  damning  proof,  you  say,  of  plots  against 
His  Majesty,  now  dead? 

Jane  Shore.     So  the  king  did  say  to  me, 
And  after  charged  it  on  the  lords 
Assembled  at  the  supper  in  my  house. 

Sir  Mar.     And  what  became  of  them  ? 

Jane  Shore.     Alas !  I  do  not  know.     My  liege 
Did  take  them  with  him ;  when,  that  night, 
He  went  from  our  last  supper  to  his  death, 
The  papers  strangely  disappeared. 
I  do  believe,  Sir  Marmaduke, 


A  King's  Love.  247 

De  Greville's  party,  like  ourselves, 
Are  lost  in  wonder  at  their  sudden  loss, 
For  since  my  short  imprisonment 
They  've  offered  help  to  me,  if  I,  at  once, 
Would  give  them  up  those  fatal  proofs. 
They  should  apply  to  Gloucester. 
For  some  dark  reason,  't  is  my  belief 
He  holds  those  proofs  as  bonds 
Against  the  ruthless  barons. 

Sir  Mar.     But  why  charge  you  with  witchcraft, 
And  force  you  to  this  trial  ? 

fane  Shore.     The  dead  alone,  my  friend,  are  safe 
With  this  man,  whose  malignjnfluence 
Has  made  him  feared  by  stronger  men  than  he ; 
His  gentle  manner  gloves  an  iron  hand, 
His  quiet  covers  dark  and  deep  designs, 
His  smile  is  winter's  sunlight  cast  on  ice, 
Or  lightning  gleam  of  teeth  the  tiger  shows 
When  its  lip  it  lifts  in  anger  ere  its  springs. 
He  has  the  subtle  beauty  of  the  snake, 
That  terrifies  while  yet  it  charms  to  kill. 
The  Duke  has  done  no  open  wrong  to  me, 
But  I  am  in  his  way,  and  I  have  felt, 
As  nature  gives  each  one  to  feel 
The  presence  of  its  enemy,  when  he  is  near. 

{Enter  CARDINAL  ST.  JOHN  and  Church  dignitaries,  the 


248  A  King's  Love. 

DUKE  OF  GLOUCESTER,  DE  GREVILLE,  and  lords.  The  Lord 
Cardinal  takes  the  chair,  and  lords  spiritual  and  lords  tempo- 
ral range  themselves  on  either  side.  Enter  WHITHOLD,  FRIAR 
BUNGAY,  and  attendants?) 

Jane  Shore.     His  grace,  the  Cardinal,  who  knows  me 

well, 

Will  surely  see  that  I  have  justice  here. 
There  is  De  Faulk,  whose  large  domain 
I  saved  to  him  through  favor  with  the  king. 
Trouville,  too,  hath  favors  at  my  hand. 
They  all,  save  Gloucester,  owe  me  much. 

Sir  Mar.     The  hungry  hound  forgets  the  food 
Given  him  but  yesterday.     Mistress  Shore 
These  men  are  all  ashamed  of  gifts 
From  any  one,  but  most  of  all  from  you. 

Cardinal.     Jane  Shore. 

Jane  Shore.     Your  grace. 

Cardinal.     You  '11  hear  the  charges  now  preferred 
By  counsel  of  the  state,  wherein 
You  stand  accused  of  sin  and  crime, 
'Gainst  God  and  man.     For  this  are  we 
Assembled  here,  to  give  you  trial 
On  our  most  sacred  oaths.     Hear,  then,  and  plead. 

King's  Counsel.  {Reads?)  Jane  Shore,  of  London, 
we  present,  as  guilty  of  divers  crimes  and  misdemeanors 
against  the  law  of  God,  and  against  the  peace  and  dignity 


A  King's  Love.  249 

of  the  realm,  to  wit :  that  for  the  year  last  past,  and  many 
years  previous  thereto,  moved  by  a  heart  prone  to  evil, 
and  instigated  by  Satan,  she  did  practice  the  unholy  arts 
of  witchcraft,  to  the  confusion  and  wrong  of  many  honest 
people ;  that,  thus  dealing  in  a  deadly  art,  she  wrought 
strangely  and  wrongfully  upon  his  late  Sacred  Majesty,  the 
King  Edward  Plantagenet,  known  as  Edward  IV.,  and  so 
practicing,  his  Sacred  Majesty  living  did  languish,  and 
languishing  did  die. 

Cardinal.     You  hear — plead  you  guilty  or  not  guilty  ? 

Jane  Shore.     Good  my  lords  spiritual  and  temporal, 
To  all  these  several  charges  I  here  plead 
Not  guilty,  and  pray  you  give  me  patient  hearing. 

King's  Counsel.      Francis  Bungay,   friar,   stand  forth 
and  be  sworn.     (FRIAR  BUNGAY  steps  forward.} 

Jane  Shore.     My  lords,  and  Lord  Cardinal, 
If  this  man  be  witness  'gainst  me,  I  pray 
That  he  be  heard  without  the  mockery  of  an  oath. 
His  hand  that  he  would  hold  to  God 
Is  stained  with  human  blood.     Nay,  more, 
His  soul  is  seared  by  wickedness  too  foul 
For  such  appeal. 

Cardinal.     Mistress  Shore,  we  must  admonish  you 
To  be  more  guarded  in  your  speech.     (Confers  with  King's 
Counsel^) 


250  A  King's  Love. 

It  is  her  right — the  oath  is  her  protection. 
Proceed  without  it  if  she  so  demands. 

King's  Counsel.         What  do  you  know  of  defendant's 

practice, 
As  set  forth  in  these  charges  ? 

Bungay.     I  know  that  they  are  true. 
Cardinal.     Well,  proceed. 

Bungay.     For  weeks  I  was  an  inmate  of  her  house, 
Through  favor  of  His  Majesty  the  King. 
And  I  do  know  she  had  a  waxen  image 
Of  his  grace,  the  Duke  of  Gloucester. 

Jane  Shore.     Alack  !  what  monstrous  lie  is  this  ? 

Bungay.     In  the  right  arm  of  this  foul  thing, 
Did  she  with  desperate  curses  and  deep  spells 
Fix  many  pins  to  wither  and  destroy 
His  grace's  sacred  limb. 

Duke.     And,  by  St.  Paul,  with  some  success,  my  lords, 
For  see  my  arm  is  robbed  of  its  fair  shape.     (Shows  his  arm.} 

Jane  Shore.     Your  grace,  if  this  be  proof  against  me, 
Then  did  I  cast  the  spell  that  made  you  lame, 
While  in  your  mother's  womb.     For  well  'tis  known 
You  came  forth  thence  thus  sadly  marred,  for  which 
We  all  lament.     Alas !  I  was  not  born 
When  that  occurred. 

Duke.     Are  we  assembled  here  to  wag  our  tongues 
In  disputations  with  a  noisy  witch  ? 


A  King's  Love.  251 

Cardinal.     Again,  Jane  Shore,  I  do  admonish  you 
That  these  unseemly  interruptions 
Offend  the  court  and  give  no  aid  to  you. 

Jane  Shore.     I  am  a  helpless  woman,  pleading  for  my 

life, 

If  I  mistake,  for  I  am  ignorant, 
I  pray  you  pardon  me  my  error. 
My  counsel,  learned  in  the  law, 
Tells  me  that  I  may  put  all  falsehood 
To  the  question — let  its  source  be  what  it  may- 
For  that  we  English  people  have  no  fear 
To  calmly  face  the  truth,  though  truth  be  death, 
Stand  I  on  English  ground,  my  lords, 
In  whose  pure  soil  oppression  can  not  thrive. 
Nay,  is  it  not  our  boast,  well  known  abroad, 
That  in  this  air  of  England  injustice  dies, 
And  that  we  all  have  equal  standing  here 
Before  the  law  ?    I  pray  you,  then,  give  space 
To  my  poor  efforts. 

Cardinal.     You  may  proceed. 

Jane  Shore.     Thanks,  my  lord.     (To  the  friar.') 
Witness,  is  not  your  name,  your  real  name, 
Francis  Capello  ? 

Bungay.     My  name  is  Francis  Bungay. 

Jane  Shore.     Were  you  not  driven  in  disgrace 
From  your  good  order  near  to  Florence ; 


252  A  King's  Love. 

After,  condemned  for  murder  of  your  mistress, 
And  only  saved  from  ignominious  death 
By  pleading  of  your  privilege  ? 

Cardinal.     Nay,    Mistress   Shore,  the  law  which  now 

you  quote 

Tells  us  the  witness  shall  not  criminate  himself. 
Have  you  no  other  proof  of  what  you  charge  ? 

Jane  Shore.     He  carries  that,  Lord  Cardinal, 
Upon  his  shameless  body. 
Bid  him  but  show  the  court  his  shoulder. 

(FRIAR  BUNGAY  falls  upon  his  knees) 

Bungay.     I  cry  for  mercy,  lords,  for  I  was  innocent 
And  most  unjustly  dealt  with. 

Jane  Shore.     (Suddenly  pulling  the  gown  from  BUNGAY'S 
shoulder  and  revealing  the  letter  "A") 
See,  my  lords,  his  crime  and  punishment 
Are  burned  into  his  flesh. 

Duke.     God's  wounds,  gentlemen,  it  seems 
We  're  all  on  trial  save  the  witch. 
This  man  is  my  retainer,  and,  as  such, 
I  give  him  my  protection 
Until  he  hath  fair  trial. 

Cardinal.     Your  grace,  this  is  a  matter  that  concerns 
The  church.     We  can  not  lend  its  sacred  robes 
To  cover  the  hangman's  brand.     Now,  take  this  knave 
And  let  him  be  well  guarded.     (Exit  BUNGAY  under  guard.} 


A  King's  Love.  253 

Jane  Shore.     And  now,  my  lords,  I  pray  you  let  me  go 
In  peace.     You  see  I  am  no  witch, 
But  a  poor  woman,  whose  fate  it  was 
To  do  a  service  to  her  king 
Wherein  there  was  much  peril.     If  to  wake 
His  gratitude  for  that  was  witchcraft, 
Then  am  I  guilty  of  a  grave  offense; 
But  all  of  you  do  know  that  he  was  kind 
And  soft  to  those  he  loved,  as  he  was  stern 
To  those  who  waked  his  wrath.     His  confidence  in  me 
Is  much  exaggerated,  for  you  see  me  here 
A  poor  woman  without  so  much  withal 
To  give  me  daily  bread  and  gowns  enough 
To  shield  me  from  the  cold.     And  I  have  striven, 
In  my  poor  way,  to  aid  the  more  unfortunate 
Who  did  incur  his  anger.      If  to  plead  for  such, 
And,  pleading,  gain  their  cause,  was  witchcraft,  then 
Was  I  a  witch.     Since  when,  my  lords, 
Have  witches  turned  peacemakers,  to  smooth  the  way 
Of  rough  contention  and  of  bitter  strife  ? 
I,  wicked  as  I  am,  boast  not  of  alms ; 
But  none  went  hungry  from  my  open  door, 
Who  sought  for  food  or  shelter.     E'er  was  this 
The  work  of  witches  ?     My  lords,  my  lords, 
I  pray  you  let  me  go  in  peace ! 

Cardinal.     In  verity,  it  seems  to  me, 


254  A  King's  Love. 

There  is  no  reason,  lords,  to  hold  Jane  Shore 
Longer  on  trial.     Naught  has  been  proved  here, 
And  I  say,  let  her  depart. 

Voices.     And  I — and  I — and  I. 

Duke.     Hold — not  so  fast,  your  grace. 
There  is  a  witness  here  we  may  not  doubt. 

Jane  Shore.     (To  MARMADUKE.)     Alas !  what  does  he 
mean? 

Sir  Mar.     Some  devilish  mischief,  judging  by  the  grin 
That  curls  about  his  mouth. 

Duke.     Her  Majesty,  the  Queen,  the  hope,  my  lords, 
Of  mourning  England,  awaits  without. 
Will  you,  Lord  Cardinal,  inform  her  we  attend 
Her  gracious  bidding  ? 

Cardinal.     Most  readily,  your  grace.     (£xtf.} 

Jane  Shore.    What  can  this  mean  ?    What  darker  cloud 
Hangs  threatening  o'er  us? 

Sir  Mar.     I  can  not  tell.     We  had  the  court  full  sure 
But  for  this  further  proof. 

{Re-enter  CARDINAL,  escorting  QUEEN  ELIZABETH  in  deep 
mourning?) 

Cardinal.     We  '11  hear,  your  Majesty,  all  you  may  say 
Concerning  crimes  with  which  Jane  Shore, 
Defendant  here,  stands  charged.     Is  it  your  wish 
The  Queen  be  sworn? 


A  King's  Love.  255 

Jane  Shore.     Nay,  nay,  my  lords,  an  oath  would  add 

no  weight 
To  what  the  Queen  may  say. 

Cardinal.     Know  you  this  woman  ? 

Queen.     Much  to  my  sorrow,  I  did  know  her  long 
As  one  who  had  strange  power  o'er  my  lord, 
And  on  that  very  day  he  sought  my  arms  to  die, 
I  visited  her  home  in  such  disguise 
She  did  not  know  me,  and  in  such  Hisguise 
She  did  confess  to  me  her  crime. 

Jane  Shore.     Your  Majesty ! 

Queen.     I  told  her  my  trouble,  still  disguised, 
And  asked  her  by  what  power,  charm,  or  drug 
She  won  the  hearts  of  men  and  crazed  their  brain, 
So  that  they  knew  not  right  from  wrong,  nor  knew 
Their  duty  to  their  homes  nor  their  poor  wives. 
The  witch  seemed  moved  by  this. 

Jane  Shore.     Alas !  my  better  feelings  blinded  me 
To  the  cruel  snare  right  at  my  wretched  feet. 

Queen.     Thus  moved  she  gave  to  me  a  subtle  charm 
Of  rarest  power,  so  she  said,  which  I  was  urged 
To  wear  upon  my  heart,  and  here  it  is.     (Gives  charm.) 

Cardinal*     Unhappy  woman,  have  you  aught  to  say 
In  answer  to  such  fearful  proof  as  this  ? 

Jane  Shore.      Naught,   my  lord.      Her  Majesty,   the 
Queen, 


256  ;    A  King's  Love. 

Hath  told  the  truth — naught  but  the  truth — and  yet 
Not  all  the  truth. 

Cardinal.     How  dare  you  intimate  a  doubt 
On  what  you  do  confess  ? 

Jane  Shore.     I  question  not,  my  lord,  the  fatal  proofs 
Now  given  by  Her  Majesty. 
I  only  say,  she  did  not  tell  you  all, 
For  all  she  could  not  know.     Moved  by  her  tale, 
And  thinking  her  some  city  dame 
Troubled  to  tears  by  household  misery, 
And  while  denying  still  I  was  a  witch, 
To  ease  her  mind,  I  gave  that  amulet, 
Which  I  had  worn  near  all  my  life, 
Close  next  my  heart,  the  dearest  gift  on  earth, 
For  it  was  given  me,  all  wet  with  tears, 
By  my  poor  mother  on  her  dying  bed. 
I  pray  you  open  it,  my  lord,  and  see 
The  sort  of  wicked  charm  I  gave  to  her. 

Cardinal.     (Opens  and  reads.)     "May  he,  who   bade 
the  children  come  to  him,  be  father  to  the  orphan." 
children  come  to  him,  be  father  to  the  orphan"} 

Duke.     This  is  the  devil's  own;  for  well  we  know 
The  prayers  thus  used,  are  prayers  read  backward, 
To  serve  the  witch's  purpose. 

Jane  Shore.     I  know,  I  know,  my  lords — I  make 
No  further  plea.     My  doom  is  sealed, 
My  days  are  numbered,  and  I  here  accept 


A  King's  Love.  257 

My  shameful  death,  for  deeds  I  did  not  do, 
In  expiation  of  the  sins  I  did  commit. 
One  word,  your  gracious  majesty, 
You  have  here  sworn  away  my  life ; 
I  do  forgive,  for  I  have  done  you  wrong. 
Moved  by  your  piteous  tale,  I  all  forgot 
My  proper  caution,  and  I  gave  to  you 
My  dying  mother's  gift,  a  blessing  then, 
That  in  your  cruel  hand  now  turns  a  curse 
To  blight  my  wretched  life.     Queen — mother- 
Look  to  your  babes ;  see  that  a  mother's  prayer, 
Wrung  out  in  anguish,  may  not  be  in  vain. 
When  evil  comes  to  you  and  them — 
For  come  it  will  from  God,  in  God's  good  time, 
To  all  who  substitute  their  human  wrath 
For  his  diviner  judgment — 
Look  to  your  babes,  oh !  Queen. 

Queen.     This  woman  frightens  me 

Duke.     Tush,  good  sister.     Am  I  not  here  ? 
May  God  forget  me  when  I  forget 
You  or  your  precious  babes.     (Exit  with  QUEEN.) 

Cardinal.     You  will  make  up  the  judgment,  lords, 
And  give  the  proper  form  to  sentence.     (They  confer.) 

Jane  Shore.    (To  SIR  MARMADUKE.)    Be  not  so  grieved, 

my  only  friend, 
They  do  but  give  to  me  the  common  doom. 

22 


258  A  King's  Love. 

We  all  must  die.     What  recks  it  now 
To  me  that  a  few  wretched  days  are  lost- 
Wiped  from  the  common  score  ? 

King's  Counsel.  Jane  Shore,  hear  the  sentence  of  the 
court.  It  is  decreed  that  you,  clad  in  a  sheet;  in  token  of 
your  sin,  and  holding  a  taper,  that  all  men  may  see  your 
punishment,  shall  walk  with  bare  feet  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don till  you  die.  And  no  man  nor  woman  nor  child  shall 
give  you  to  eat  or  drink,  or  open  shelter  to  you,  on  pen- 
alty of  death.  May  God  have  mercy  on  your  sinful  soul. 
(Exeunt  CARDINAL  and  court. ) 

Jane  Shore.     Ah  me  !  what  cruelty  is  this  ? 
To  walk  a  public  scorn  until  I  die. 
To  die  in  shame  upon  the  cruel  streets, 
As  if  I  were  a  brute.     Nay,  worse ; 
The  brute  excites  some  pity  in  its  death, 
While  I  have  none.     Have  mercy  on  me,  Jesus  \ 
Oh  !  grant  me  strength  to  die.     Why  pray  for  strength  ? 
Oh  !  take  my  strength,  that  I  may  die  full  soon  ! 
My  heart  sinks  in  me,  and  I  shake  from  fear, 
It  is  so  terrible. 

Sir  Mar.     These  lords  be  devils  in  human  form, 
And  Gloucester  is  the  devil  of  them  all. 

Jane  Shore.     I  did  think  to  die  without  a  moan 
For  well  I  merit  death;  but,  oh  !  my  friend, 
This  torture  is  so  frightful. 


A  King's  Love.  259 

Sir  Mar.     (Aside.)     Yet  must  she   see  her  daughter 

ere  she  die. 

Mistress  Shore,  fair  Alice  waits  without, 
Longing  to  clasp  you  in  her  arms. 

Jane  Shore.     Alice,  my  own — take  her  away. 
Take  her  away.     Let  her  not  see  me. 
Ah!  never  let  her  know  my  sort  of  death. 
Man,  if  you  care  for  God,  take  her  away ! 

Sir  Mar.     Too  late.     She  's  here.     (Enter  ALICE.) 

Alice.     My  mother!     {Embraces  her.) 

Jane  Shore.     My  child  !  Why  did  they  fetch  you  here  ! 

Alice.     What  have  they  done  to  you  ?     Speak  !  speak ! 
My  heart  is  breaking.     Oh  !  tell  me  now, 
What  have  they  done  to  you,  my  mother  ? 

Jane  Shore.     You  're  not  ashamed,  my  child,  to  call  me 

that, 
I  who  have  wronged  you  so  ? 

Alice.     Ashamed!  Why  should  I  be  ashamed? 
You  did  me  wrong  in  that  you  did  conceal 
The  mother  from  me.     What  have  they  done  ? 
I  stood  without,  and  stern  old  men  strode  by. 
I  saw  the  queen — her  face  was  troubled  ; 
While  the  cruel  duke  of  Gloucester  smiled. 
What  have  they  done  ? 

Jane  Shore.     Naught,  my  child  that's  worse  than  ban- 
ishment 
From  you. 


260  A  King's  Love. 

Alice.     But  I  '11  accompany  you,  my  mother, 
And  soothe  your  cares,  and  be  your  patient  nurse. 

Jane  Shore.     (To  SIR  MARMADUKE.)     For  God's  sake 

man,  come  to  my  aid, 
Or  I  shall  die.     There,  there,  my  child ! 
Go  with  him  now.     I  '11  see  you,  sweet,  anon. 

Sir  Mar.     Come,  my  Alice,  we  must  hence. 
We'll  soon  return.     Now,  come. 

Alice.     I  can  not.     Oh!   I  can  not.     (Faints  in  SIR 
MARMADUKE'S  arms.} 

Jane  Shore.     One  kiss,  my  little  pet,  poor  little  pet ! 
I  '11  never  see  you  more.     Farewell ! 
Now  hasten  from  me  ere  she  can  revive. 
(Exeunt  SIR  MARMADUKE  and  ALICE.     Enter  CARDINAL 

ST.  JOHN;  JANE  SHORE  throws  herself  at  his  feet.} 
Oh !  holy  father,  save  me !     Save  me ! 
See  the  Queen  straightway.     Plead  with  her 
To  grant  me  speedy  death.     Tell  the  Duke 
To  give  me  the  rope  or  block,  aught  but  this 
Most  horrible  torture. 

Cardinal.     My  child, 

A  woman's  heart  when  plead  to  by  a  woman 
Is  pitiless  as  death.     The  Lord  Protector, 
His  grace,  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  hath  in  his  heart 
That  much  of  woman  and  no  more. 
You  plead,  I  'm  pained  to  say,  in  vain, 
For  I  have  prayed  them  both  and  prayed  in  vain. 


A  King's  Love.  261 

Jane  Shore.     Alas !  what  may  I  do,  for  I  am  weak 
And  full  of  fears? 

Cardinal.    Put  all  your  trust  in  Him,  who  once  like  you 
Carried  his  cross  amid  the  mocking  crowd, 
So  weak,  so  heavy,  and  so  sick  at  heart, 
To  die  as  thou  must  die.     But  trust  in  Him, 
And  he  will  give  you  strength  to  bear  your  cross. 
With  every  feeble  step  some  sin  will  fall, 
With  every  pain  your  soul  will  rise  more  pure, 
And  death  will  not  be  death  to  you, 
Who  thus  redeemed  will  rise  to  God, 
And  with  His  angels  find  eternal  rest. 

(During  the  lattei  part  of  this  scene  the  stage  has  darkened 
into  twilight,  and  as  the  CARDINAL  delivers  his  last  speech,  the 
moonlight  streams  through  large  window  back  of  colored  glass, 
bringing  into  view  the  cross  painted  upon  it.) 

CURTAIN 


ACT  V. 

SCENE:  Charing  Cross,  London.  Night.  A  snow  storm. 
Enter  JANE  SHORE,  in  -white  gown,  bare-footed,  and  carrying  a 
light,  followed  by  a  crowd  hooting  at  her.  She  seems  nearly  ex- 
hausted. 

fane  Shore.  Good  people,  do  not  crowd  upon  me  so. 
You  frighten  me.  The  stones  do  wound  my  feet  and  I 


262  A  King's  Love. 

am  hungered  and  faint  and  so  athirst  I  scarce  can  speak. 
If  you  will  go  aside  and  let  me  die  in  peace,  I  will  bless 
you  all. 

First  Voice.     We  want  no  blessings  from  a  witch. 

Second  Voice.     A  witch's  blessing  is  the  devil's  curse. 

Jane  Shore.  \  am  no  witch.  The  holy  cardinal,  good 
St.  John,  will  tell  you  this.  I  am  but  a  woman,  most  un- 
fortunate— 

First  Voice.  Hearken  not  to  her,  she  will  cast  a  spell ; 
she  did  bewitch  the  King. 

(Cries,  "Stone  her!  stone  her!"     A  rush.} 

Jane  Shore.  (Cries  out}  Oh!  God,  have  mercy  on 
me!  Oh,  please  don't!  (They  hesitate.}  Good  folk,  give 
me  a  little  space  and  I  will  die  as  it  is  decreed.  I  am 
nearly  dead.  You  do  so  frighten  me.  Alas !  I  see  not 
well !  I  am  quite  blind  and  my  head  swims — but  it  does 
seem  to  me  that  I  see  faces  of  those  who  once  asked  alms 
of  me,  when  I  was  rich  and  powerful.  Will  they  not  pity 
me  ?  Oh !  they  will  pity  me  surely,  and  let  me  die  in 
peace.  If  I  did  bewitch  the  late  King,  God  rest  his 
soul,  it  is  for  your  good. 

Crowd.  She  does  confess — stone  her,  stone  her !  (A 
rush.  Enter  WHITHOLD.) 

Whithold.  Stand  back,  my  masters.  What  have  you 
here? 

First  Voice.     The  witch,  Jane  Shore. 


A  King's  Love.  263 

Second  Voice.  And  we  will  kill  her  lest  she  cast  a  spell 
upon  us  all. 

Whithold.  'In  that,  most  worthy  folk,  you  do  your 
bounden  duty.  But  let  me  teach  you  how  to  treat  a 
witch. 

First  Voice.  The  King's  fool  will  make  sport  for  us. 
Do  it,  fool,  do  it. 

Whithold.  {Approaches  JANE.  Aside  to  her.}  Fear 
not,  good  mistress,  I  will  protect  you.  (Aloud.}  You  see 
this  flask,  my  master.  It  hath  in  it  holy  water  from  the 
river  Jordan,  blessed  by  the  Pope.  I  do  but  make  her 
swallow  ever  so  small  a  drop  (puts  his  arms  around  her) 
and  then  she  turneth  black,  and  in  a  little  space  will  the 
devil  come  in  thunder  and  carry  her  away. 

Crowd.  Good!  good!  make  her  drink,  that  we  may 
see  the  devil  get  his  own. 

Whithold.  But  when  the  devil  comes,  good  masters, 
have  a  care.  He  comes  in  lightning,  look  you — (aside.) 
Lean  on  me,  mistress — (aloud)  and  death-dealing  thunder, 
and  all  who  have  lied  about  their  neighbors  are  in  danger 
(some  of  the  crowd  start  back,  the  others  laugh),  and  all  who 
have  kissed  their  neighbors'  wives  will  suffer  (others  start 
back — laughter),  and  all  that  steal  will  die  (several  start  back, 
and  the  entire  crowd  gets  further  from  JANE.  SHORE  and 
WHITHOLD).  Now  will  I  make  her  drink.  Look  ye  all 
to  the  east  and  see  the  devil  come.  (They  turn,  and  many 


264  A  King's  Love. 

steal  off.  To  JANE  SHORE.)  Now,  mistress,  drink;  it  is 
a  cordial  that  will  help  thee  much.  (He  puts  the  flask  to 
her  mouth  and  she  drinks  eagerly.'} 

Jane  Shore.  Alas !  poor  fool,  poor  fool,  this  act  will 
cost  thee  dear. 

Whithold.  Fear  not  for  me.  A  fool  may  do,  and 
prosper,  what  a  wise  man  may  not  look  at  and  live. 
Now  wait.  Ho,  ho,  he  comes !  See  the  devil  comes ! 
(The  crowd  runs  off.}  Ha,  ha,  ha,  the  cowards,  how  they 
run!  Now,  mistress,  eat  of  this  cake.  (She  eats  raven- 
ously.'} If  I  can  but  hide  thee  for  a  time. 

Jane  Shore.  Ah,  me !  Of  all  my  many  friends — of  all 
who  followed,  flattered,  kissed  by  hands  for  favors,  this 
poor  fool  alone  is  true. 

Whithold.  Because  he  is  a  fool.  No  wise  man  is 
true  but  to  himself,  and  no  woman  is  true  to  any  thing,  for 
the  Lord  made  her  a  fool  that  she  might  bear  children. 

Jane  Shore.  I  do  feel  comforted.  But,  alas,  I  must 
die;  'tis  so  decreed. 

Whithold.  Yea,  verily,  you  must  die  when  your  time 
comes,  as  we  all  die  by  the  decree  of  heaven. 

Jane  Shore.  And  do  you  give  me  hope  ? — ah,  Whit- 
hold, it  is  a  dismal  thing  to  die  as  the  cruel  council  or- 
dered me  to  die,  like  any  helpless  brute  upon  the  streets. 
You  give  me  hope  ? 

Whithold.      Else,    had   I  not  given  you    to    eat   and 


A  King's  Love.  265 

drink.  Be  not  cast  down,  my  mistress,  your  daughter, 
Lady  Woodville,  weeps  the  hours  away,  bidding  fair  to 
die  with  you. 

Jane  Shore.  What  sayest  thou,  good  fool — my  daugh- 
ter, Lady  Woodville  ? 

Whithold.  I  marrily.  They  have  wed  in  haste,  lest 
the  old  miser,  Greville,  and  the  great  Duke  of  Gloucester 
now  our  Lord  Protector,  might  wish  the  pretty  maiden 
harm. 

Jane  Shore.  I  am  amazed — your  news  is  comfort  to 
my  heart,  as  your  food  and  drink  were  comfort  to  my 
stomach ;  now  can  I  die  in  peace  ? 

Whithold.  Talk  not  of  dying,  mistress ;  leave  that  to 
wiser  heads  who  make  to-day  sad  with  troubles  of  to-mor- 
row. Let  me  put  out  your  light  to  save  your  life,  that  we 
may  steal  away  unseen.  (Noise  heard  without.}  May 
Satan  seize  me,  but  they  come  again.  (Solemn  march 
heard  approaching.}  Nay,  'tis  the  midnight  burial  of  the 
King.  Stand  we  aside,  mistress.  The  dead  King  will  be 
a  means  to  aid  escape. 

{They  withdraw.  Enter  procession  ;  pallbearers  carrying 
the  body  of  the  king,  followed  by  guards  and  preceded  by 
CARDINAL  ST.  JOHN  and  church  dignitaries,  with  lighted 
candles  and  music.  They  halt,  placing  the  body  before  the 
cross.} 

Cardinal.    Set  down  your  sacred  load,  't  is  meet  that  we 


266  A  King's  Love. 

Pause  in  our  solemn  duty  here  beneath 
The  shadow  of  the  holy  cross,  of  Christ, 
Portal  of  death  to  Him  and  life  to  us, 
Emblem  of  power,  for  by  the  blood  of  Christ 
Are  Kings  anointed  who  do  govern  men, 
And  we  who  bury  Edward  may  commune 
Upon  his  many  virtues  ere  the  tomb 
Closes  on  all  that 's  mortal  of  him.     Now, 
The  sins  that  lie  between  his  God  and  him 
Appear  before  that  bar  where  each  must  stand, 
All  naked  and  alone,  the  King  uncrowned, 
No  better  than  the  poorest  subject  there, 
To  be  adjudged.     Indeed,  more  peril  comes 
To  one  who  has  high  trusts ;  for  it  is  said 
To  such  shall  strict  account  be  rendered. 
His  tomb  about  to  close  upon  him  leaves 
His  deeds  to  chroniclers  for  coming  time ; 
Remembering   these,  we  may  well  pray  to  God 
For  mercy  to  his  soul. 

He  was  a  man  made  in  a  larger  mold, 
A  King  of  kingly  form  and  generous  mind, 
Slow  to  resent,  but  quick  to  act  his  will 
And  quicker  to  forgive.     Wisdom   he  had 
With  soldierly  resolution.     In  the  council, 
Calm  and  far-seeing — in  the  field  of  strife, 
Sudden,  deadly,  and  most  conclusive. 


A  King's  Love.  267 

For  we  have  seen  how  in  his  steady  reign 
This  realm  which  was  a  chaos  wrought  from  war — 
Ambitious  barons  making  endless  strife — 
He  brought  to  Christain  order  and  a  peace 
That  spreads  its  snow-white  pinions  o'er  the  land. 
He  gave  us  laws  that  do  protect  the  weak 
While  they  restrain  the  strong.     Judges  he  gave 
To  adjudicate  by  law  and  justice, 
Twixt  man  and  man.     To  the  holy  church 
He  large  endowments  made,  while  to  the  poor 
His  royal  hand  and  heart  were  ever  open. 
While  thus  the  King  we  bury  in  this  storm, 
How  many,  many  thousands  shivering  pray 
For  rest  unto  the  soul  of  him  who  gave 
Them,  living,  the  means  to  live. 
Take  up  the  corpse. 

(As  they  are  about  to  do  so,  a  shriek  is  heard,  and 
JANE  SHORE  rushes  on  the  stage,  WHITHOLD  vainly  striv- 
ing to  hold  her,  and  throws  herself  upon  the  body.} 

Jane  Shore.  Edward,  oh  my  King !  my  King !  Oh ! 
take  me  with  thee.  My  cross  is  more  than  I  can  bear. 
They  doom  me  to  a  cruel  death,  and  yet  I  can  not  die. 

(The  guards  suddenly  start  forward.") 

Cardinal.  Stay !  this  is  the  woman  Shore,  doomed  to 
a  cruel  death  by  highest  council.  She  hath  taken  sanctu- 
ary on  the  body  of  God's  anointed.  About  her  wretched 


268  A  King's  Love. 

form  the  holy  Church  throws  now  its  sacred  guard.     Let 
no  man  harm  her  more.     Move  on. 

(The  crowd  follows  the  procession,  leaving  JANE  SHORE 
lying  upon  the  ground,  WHITHOLD  near  her.  Enter  JOHN 
SHORE,  SIR  and  LADY  WOODVILLE.) 

John  Shore.     Jane,  my  wife,  I  do  forgive  you  now. 
Look  up  poor  heart,  your  husband  comes. 
His  arms  are  round  you.     Speak,  my  wife ! 
Forgive,  as  I  forgive.     Oh !  say  that  you  forgive, 
For  I  and  all  the  world  have  done  you  wrong. 
Jane !  wife !  speak  to  me ! 

Lady  Woodville.     Mother — mother! 

Jane  Shore.     {Pushing feebly  away.}     Do  not  crowd  on 

me  so, 

Good  people,  I  will  die  as  soon  as  I  can. 
But,  oh !  let  me  die  in  peace. 

John  Shore.      Alas!  she  knows  us  not.     Her  mind's 

distraught, 

She 's  dying  with  the  cold.     Quick  with  the  cloak.     (Folds 
it  around  her.) 

Jane  Shore.     They  bring  my  winding  sheet.     Then  am 

I  dead? 

And  yet  I  suffer.     Does  not  death  fetch  quick  relief? 
Oh !  holy  mother,  here  I  humbly  pray.     (Sinks  on  her  knees.) 
Forgive  my  deadly  sins ; 
Ease  me  of  pain. 


A  King's  Love.  269 

John  Shore.     Jane !  Jane !  my  wife !     I  am  your  hus- 
band, John — 
John  Shore — come  back  to  you. 

Jane  Shore.     (Staggering  tip.)     John,  good  husband, 
Take  me  hence.     (Looking  wildly  around  as  she  clutches  him.) 
Wicked  people  hunt  me  down  with  stones. 

John  Shore.     Fear  not,  poor  wife.     I  will  protect  you, 

pet. 

Look  not  so  fearful.     You  are  pardoned,  love. 
They  dare  not  harm  you  now. 

Lady  Woodville.     Mother !  see,  we  are  near. 
I  have  my  arms  about  you. 

Jane  Shore.     And  you  will  take  me  hence  from  all  this 

coil; 

These  cruel  men  who  carry  stones, 
And  crowd  upon  me  with  mocking  jeers? 
They  call  me  witch,  my  husband,  and  they  seek 
My  death.     Quick !  take  me  hence, 
For  they  will  come  again.     Oh !  take  me  hence, 
To  our  sweet  home  hard  by  the  babbling  brook, 
Where  sunny  fields  are  full  of  flowers,  John, 
And  woods  with  birds.     There  will  we  live  and  love. 
(Starting  back}     Ha !  what  form  is  this  that  comes  between 

us,  John? 

It  is  the  King  !     Alas !  I  can  not  go ; 
It  is  decreed  that  I  with  him  shall  lie 


270  A  King^s  Love. 

In  stony  death, 

For  that  I  was  his  leman  when  he  lived, 
I  must  be  his  in  death; 
Else  there  were  no  pardon  for  my  sin. 
I  come,  Oh!  King,  I  come!     (Falls  and  dies.'} 
CURTAIN. 


EMOTIONAL  INSANITY. 

A   COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT. 


SCENE  i.  A  handsome  apartment,  half  drawing-room  half 
library.  To  right,  library  table  with  books,  writing  material,  etc. 
Landscape  seen  through  glass  door,  back.  JAMES  discovered 
seated  lazily  in  an  arm-chair;  SUSAN  engaged  dusting  furniture. 

James.  Susan,  you  look  as  fresh  and  delicious  this 
June  morning  as  a  mutton  head  dressed  in  oyster  sauce. 

Susan.     Is  that  your  best  in  the  way  of  a  compliment  ? 

James.  Ah!  you  hollyhock — you  artichoke — you 
cauliflower — 

Susan.  See  here,  Mister  Jirn,  when  you  go  into  the 
garden  for  fine  speeches,  I  'd  thank  you  to  keep  clear  of 
the  vegetable  beds. 

James.  I  must  say,  you  plump  partridge  of  the 
prairies,  I  ain't  much  on  the  botanies ;  what  would  you, 
me  love? 

Susan.     Well,  call  me  a  tuberose  ? 

James.     You  tuberose! 

Susan.     A  moss  bud. 

James.     You  moss  bud ! 

(271) 


272  Emotional  Insanity. 

Susan.     A  lovely  tulip. 

James.  You  are  a  two  lips,  by  George !  I  like  that 
better  than  any.  They  're  good  to  taste.  The  two  lips 
they  round  up  like  loving  rosebuds — are  colored  like  coral, 
and  as  soft  as  Lucca's  notes.  (Aside.)  Got  that  from 
Colonel  Bangs'  note-book ;  he  lets  that  off  on  every  pretty 
girl  he  meets. 

Susan.     That 's  beautiful. 

James.  But  after  all,  Susan,  a  kiss  is  only  a  surface 
indication — 

Susan.     What  do  you  mean  by  that? 

James.  Picked  it  up  in  California.  It 's  what  the 
miners  say  while  prospecting.  When  they  find  a  few 
shiners  on  top  they  say  it 's  a  surface  indication. 

Susan.  You  've  been  all  over  the  world,  and  I  some- 
times, wonder,  I  do,  how  you  can  be  willing  to  stay  in 
such  a  dull  place  as  this,  with  such  a  cross  man  as  our 
old  Mr.  Brown. 

James.  It  is  a  little  hard  on  a  fellow — a  fellow  de- 
signed, you  see,  to  adorn  society.  We  have  traveled, 
Susan,  we  have  flirted,  we  have  gambled,  and  we  have 
been  most  elegantly  bored  in  all  parts  of  the  world.  But 
for  a  dense,  steady  article  of  bore  just  give  me  this  vil- 
lage. By  Jove,  you  can't  cut  it.  I  wish  I  could! 

Susan.     I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Jim. 


Emotional  Insanity .  273 

James.  But  for  you,  my  rosebud,  they  might  have  put 
me  in  my  little  bed  under  the  daisies  long  since. 

Susan.     And  that  is  why  you  stay  here  ? 

James.     Well,  yes. 

Susan.  But  why  did  you  come  ?  Why  did  you  leave 
society  you  adorn  for  this  place  ? 

James.     Susan,  that  is  a  secret. 

Susan.     A  secret ! 

James.     No,  it  is  more — it  is  a  conspiracy. 

Susan.     You  do  n't  mean  it  ? 

James.     A  plot — a  deep,  dark,  mysterious  plot. 

Susan.     Gracious !     Mr.  Jim,  you  frighten  me. 

James.  I  want  to.  No  conspiracy  is  perfect,  Susan, 
without  women  in  it.  We  '11  have  two.  You  swear  never 
to  betray  us. 

Susan.     What  is  it  ? 

James.  Hold.  {Seizes  the  duster  and  holds  it  before  her 
in  a  theatrical  manner. ) 

Upon  the  jeweled  hilt  of  this  my  trusty  sword, 
My  trusty  sword,  you  swear  ? 
Now  you  say,  "I  swear." 

Susan.     I  swear  ! 

James.  Pretty  well  done,  that.  Did  you  observe  my 
pose,  Susan? 

Susan      No,  where  do  you  keep  it  ? 

James.     Bother !  I  mean  my  posish — thus.     Got  that 


274  Emotional  Insanity. 

from  Booth  when  he  affidavies  his  companions  touching 
the  spiritual  manifestation. 

Susan.     But  what 's  it  all  about  ? 

James.     Susan,  I  came  to  rob  this  house. 

Susan.     Gracious !  are  you  a  highwayman  ? 

James.  Not  much.  But  keep  it  up,  Susan,  it 's  good 
practice.  When  I  say  "I  come  to  rob,"  you  must  throw 
yourself  back  on  your  right  limb  and  pose — thus :  I  come 
to  rob.  Now  you  say  "Ah!"  "Ah"  is  better  than  "gra- 
cious," Susan.  Now :  I  come  to  rob. 

Susan.     (Posing.)     Ah ! 

James.  I  come  to  rob  this  mansion  of  its  priceless 
jewel — the  fair  Merelda. 

Susan.     (As  before. )     Ah ! " 

James.     To  larceny  the  maid. 

Susan.     (As  before.}     Ah!    , 

James.     To — 

Susan.     Hold  on,  Mr.  Jim,  this  is  a  little  tiresome — 

James.  Right  up,  Susan,  we  've  had  tragedy  enough. 
You  see  I  've  been  Colonel  Bangs'  man  since  the  war,  and 
we  've  knocked  about  and  got  on  pretty  well  so  long  as  we 
flirted,  but  when  we  fell  in  love,  Susan,  trouble  began. 

Susan.     Why,  did  you  fall  in  love  ? 

James.  Certainly  not  till  I  saw  you;  but  I  use  the 
"we"  there  in  illustration  of  our  confidential  relation  to 


Emotional  Insanity.  275 

each  other.  It 's  editorial.  Well,  you  see  when  Colonel 
Bangs  spooned  on  Miss  Merelda — 

Susan.     What  on  earth  do  you  mean  by  spooned  ? 

James.  Why,  Daisy,  when  a  fellow  goes  for  his  senti- 
ment in  dead  earnest,  we  say  he  spoons.  I  do  n't  know 
why,  only  it  seems  simple  and  sloppy — sort  of  spoon 
fashion.  *  When  my  Colonel  spooned  on  Miss  Merelda — 

Susan.     Our  Miss — 

James.  Your  Miss — why  I  looked  into  the  business, 
and  finding  "our  Miss"  had  a  little  fortune  in  her  own 
right  from  her  maternal  grandmother — peace  to  her  ashes 
— and  great  expectations  from  her  father,  old  Brown — 
peace  to  his  ashes  when  he  gets  'em — I  saw  that  the  spoon 
was  gold,  and  I  encouraged  it. 

Susan.     Very  kind  of  you. 

James.  Oh !  I'm  prudent.  Now  the  amount  of  work 
I  had  to  do  in  the  way  of  notes,  bouquets,  messages,  and 
serenades,  nearly  put  me  into  a  decline.  I  struck  on  the 
serenades.  I  told  my  Colonel  that  if  he  wanted  to  go 
caterwauling  under  windows  after  night,  and  getting  an 
assortment  of  coughs,  colds,  catarrhs,  and  consumption, 
he  could  go  in — but  he  must  count  me  out. 

Susan.     But,  Mr.  Jim,  don't  you  believe  in  real  love? 

James.  Certainly,  for  flirtation,  but  out  of  date  in 
matrimony.  A  gul  do  n't  marry  a  fellow  now.  She  mar- 
ries a  stone  front  and  a  carriage.  And  so  a  fellow  looks 


276  Emotional  Insanity. 

out  for  a  bank  account  and  bonds.  He  marries  a  rich 
father  and  posish. 

Susan.     I  do  n't  like  that. 

James.  Oh  !  don't  you  ?  Nor  I  either.  It 's  all  very 
well  for  the  upper  two  dozen,  but  hard  on  the  lower  strata, 
so  says  my  Colonel.  Now,  Susan,  you  've  seen  one  of 
these  belles — a  real  highflyer — and  what  can  a  fellow  find 
to  love  ?  Eh !  She 's  one  third  pannier,  one  third  cotton, 
and  one  third  dyspepsia. 

Susan.  Why,  Mr.  Jim,  where  did  you  pick  up  such 
stuff? 

James.  At  the  Club,  Susan.  I  am  a  member  of  the 
Gentlemen's  Gentlemen  Reunion.  But  I  don't  get  on 
with  my  story.  My  Colonel  fell  in  love  with  old  Brown's 
bank  account,  and  proposed  to  his  daughter — your  Miss 
Merelda.  Old  Brown  is  peculiar.  He  called  my  Colonel 
a  fashionable  sham — heard  something  about  a  little  blonde 
—forbade  us  his  house — and  then,  to  cut  off  all  spooning, 
suddenly  moved  to  this  country  place. 

Susan.     Well,  what  then,  Mr.  Jim? 

James.  As  old  Brown  did  n't  know  me  I  hired  to  him 
as  coachman,  and  man-of-all-work,  and  here  I  am  in  the 
house  of  the  enemy,  while  my  Colonel  is  incog,  at  the  vil- 
lage hotel.  Now,  how  to  git  the  old  man's  consent,  or 
coax  the  lady  love  to  elope,  is  the  question  that  agitates 
the  country. 


Emotional  Insanity.  277 

Enter  MERELDA. 

Merelda.     James,  is  my  father  stirring  yet? 

James.  Upon  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and  belief, 
Miss,  your  excellent  paternal  does  not  stir.  When  he  stirs, 
Miss,  the  stirring  is  apt  to  be  heard. 

Merelda.  Don't  be  impertinent,  James.  Have  you 
seen  the  Colonel  this  morning  ? 

James.  The  Colonel  has  been  hid  away  under  a  bower 
of  roses  in  the  garden  these  two  hours,  where  he  fights 
mosquitoes,  bugs,  ants,  gnats,  and  other  agricultural  pro- 
ducts while  waiting  for  your  paternal  to  take  his  morning 
vibration. 

COL.  BANGS  puts  his  head  in  at  the  door. 

Col.  B.     I  say,  is  the  coast  clear  ? 

Merelda.  No,  no!  go  away — stay  away — you  must 
not  be  seen. 

Col.  B.  (Coming forward.}  Must  see  you,  if  I  die  for 
it.  My  angel  you  have  no  idea  of  the  aching  void  within 
my  heart  and  the  pain  in  my  back  I  have  suffered  from 
while  living  under  that  damned — I  beg  pardon — damp  old 
arbor  in  the  garden.  I  see  you,  arid  like  the  sun  you  ease 
my  heart  and  dry  up  the  dampness. 

James.  Come  Susan,  let 's  go  on  the  picket  line  and 
watch  for  the  approach  of  the  enemy.  (JAMES  and  SUSAN 
exeunt} 

Merelda.     But  were  my  father  to  find  you  here — 


278  Emotional  Insanity. 

CoL  B.  Bother  your  father!  I  don't  ask  to  marry 
your  father — I  want  you.  Let  us  elope,  my  darling — 

Merelda.     And  offend  the  author  of  my  being  ? 
Come  now,  what  would  we  live  on  ? 

CoL  B.  Mercenary  girl,  have  I  not  my  pay  as  a  re- 
tired officer? — lieutenant  in  the  line;  retired  as  brigadier 
and  five  thousand  a  year. 

Merelda.  You  innocent  gander!  that  wouldn't  keep 
me  in  hats.  No,  some  means  must  be  found  to  win  his 
consent,  or  I  die  an  old  maid — or  worse,  throw  myself 
away  on  a  brownstone  front  in  the  city — a  cottage  at  New- 
port— all  incumbered  by  the  aged  banker,  Bullion. 

CoL  B.     Heartless  girl !     I  see  you  do  not  love  me. 

Merelda.  My  dear  James,  do  n't  be  absurd.  Ot  course 
I  love  you.  When  I  found  myself  the  envy  of  all  Saratoga 
because  I  had  your  adoration — the  handsomest  fellow  at 
the  springs — I  returned  your  affection  with  my  whole 
heart.  When  we  went  whirling  through  the  waltz  and  all 
eyes  were  on  us  ready  to  scratch  mine  out,  I  felt  that  \ 
held  in  my  arms  the  happiness  of  a  lifetime.  And  did  I 
not  tell  eighteen  girls  in  the  strictest  confidence  of  our  en. 
gagement?  Did  I  not  cut  Fitzpoodle  and  offend  old  Bul- 
lion— jilt  Hamilton  Snooks,  and  give  all  the  time  I  could 
spare  from  dressing  to  you — 

Col.  B.     Only  to  throw  me  off  because  of  your  father. 


Emotional  Insanity.  279 

I  see  I  served  your  purpose  at  Saratoga,  to  be  thrown  over 
in  the  rural  districts  where  I  am  not  an  ornament. 

Merelda.  These  are  bitter  words,  my  Colonel ;  but  I 
pardon  you — they  prove  your  love.  But  listen.  Do  you 
suppose  me  capable  of  abandoning  my  brilliant  position 
when  by  a  little  patience  we  can  win  all  ? 

Col.  B.  I  love  you  so  entirely  that  a  home  in  the 
lowliest  hut — 

Meielda.  With  the  gardener's  son;  and  then  you'll 
leave  me  to  return  in  the  fifth  act  in  a  padded  uniform, 
with  a  grapevine  worked  up  the  back  and  no  end  of 
rooster  tails  in  your  military  chapeau,  to  relieve  the  bank- 
rupt father  and  the  heart-broken  maiden. 

Col.  B.     Do  n't  laugh  at  me. 

Merelda.  I  can't  help  it — you  are  so  ridiculous. 
And,  my  Colonel  James,  /  do  n't  want  to  he  laughed  at. 
I  am  not  willing  to  have  Merelda  Brown's  brilliant  match 
made  a  farce  of.  I  will  have  a  superb  wedding,  with  my 
father  to  give  me  away;  a  tour  of  Europe,  a  house  in 
town,  and  our  "  cottage  by  the  sea." 

Col.  B.     And  if  we  fail— 

Merelda.  As  Mrs.  Macbeth  remarks  to  her  Colonel  on 
a  like  occasion — we  fail.  But  screw  your  courage  to  the 
sticking  point,  and  we  '11  not  fail. 

Col.  B.     You  drive  me  to  desperation.     I'll  murder 


280  Emotional  Insanity. 

that  father  of  yours—I '11  send  him  the  "  Daily  Globe" 
until  he  dies  in  great  agony. 

Enter  JAMES  and  SUSAN. 

James.     The  enemy  approaches — in  force. 

Old B.     (Within.)      Jim — Susan — where  the  devil  is 
the  house  ?     (All  scatter  and  hide  save  SUSAN.) 
Enter  BROWN  with  bell-rope  in  hand. 

.  Damme  if  I  am  not  in  a  white  heat !  I  've  been  pulling  at 
this  cussed  bell-rope  to  find  it  a  sham — no  bell  to  it — like 
every  thing  else — all  shams — bah !  Susan  ! 

Susan.     Yes,  sir. 

Old  B.  Do  you  know  that  you  are  confoundedly 
good-looking  ? 

Susan.     Law,  sir,  you  flatter  me! 

Old  B.  No,  I  do  n't— I  do  n't  flatter  any  body.  I  tell 
the  truth.  A  man  who  flatters  is  a  sneak,  coward,  and  liar 
— bah !  Susan  ! 

Susan.     Sir  ? 

Old  B.  Come  here.  (She  approaches  and  he  attempts 
to  put  his  arms  around  her;  as  he  does,  SUSAN  slips  out  and 
JAMES  takes  her  place. 

James.     Did  you  ring,  sir  ? 

Old  B.  I  '11  wring  your  neck,  you  impertinent — what 
do  you  mean,  sticking  your  impudent  face  in  mine  that 
way — eh  ? 

James.     Beg  pardon,  sir — thought  you  rung,  sir. 


Emotional  Insanity.  281 

Old  B.     No,  you  did  n't ;  you  can  lie  like  an  obituary. 
James.     Thank  you,  sir — rather  flatter  myself  on  my 
accomplishments,  sir. 

Old  B.  And  you  call  lying  an  accomplishment,  do 
you  ?  I  like  that.  You  're  all  of  the  same  sort ;  I  can't 
get  any  one  about  me  but  rogues  and  liars — bah !  the  same 
with  all  the  world,  bah !  By  the  eternal,  but  I  wish  I 
could  find  one  honest  man — I  'd  salary  him  just  to  stand 
by  and  refresh  me  with  the  truth.  Did  you  hear  any 
thing  of  that  pocketbook  I  lost  last  night? 

James.  Can't  hear  any  thing  of  it,  sir — advertised  far 
and  near — offered  twenty-five  cents  reward. 

Old  B.  Who  authorized  you  to  offer  a  reward? — 
twenty-five  cents  for  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars! 
Where  's  my  daughter  ? 

Merelda.     (From  behind  the  sofa.)    Here,  pa. 

Old  B.     What  are  you  doing  there  ? 

Merelda.  Well,  pa,  I  was  so  shocked  at  your  naughty 
conduct  I  hid  myself. 

OldB.  No  you  did  n't,  you  hussy.  There 's  some  other 
reason.  There  is  something  up  here — you  can  deceive 
readily  as  any.  Here,  give  me  my  stick.  I  '11  take  you  along 
for  a  walk,  and  disappoint  you.  And  you,  Susan,  have  my 
coffee  ready  by  the  time  I  return.  (Exit  with  MERELDA. 

Col.  B.     (Coming from  closet.)     I  say,  Jim,  she  's  here. 

James.     Who,  sir? 
24 


282  Emotional  Insanity. 

Col.  B.     The  little  blonde — Saratoga  Common. 

James.     You  do  n't  say  so ! 

Col.  B.  Yes,  I  do.  I  've  been  writing  her  for  weeks 
past  offering  all  sorts  of  compromises,  and  the  other  day 
I  had  a  hurried  note  saying  that  her  husband  had  posses- 
sion of  my  letters. 

James.     The  devil ! 

Col.  B.     And  she  had  fled  from  home  to  come  to  me. 

James.  More  devils — five  thousand  devils  !  You  cer- 
tainly did  n't  sign  your  name  to  the  letters  ? 

Col.  B.  No,  only  "Your  devoted  James;"  "Your 
loving  Jim; "  "  Your  ever  devoted  James" — 

James.     And  she  's  here  ? 

Col.  B.  Saw  her  get  out  of  the  stage  from  the  last 
train — no  mistaking  that  wig.  She  's  searching  this  town 
over  for  me  this  minute — I  must  cut  and  run.  Could  n't 
face  little  Saratoga  Common  now — and  if  she  were  to  run 
against  old  paternal  B.,  he  may  as  well  make  an  early  as- 
signment. 
Enter  SUSAN  with  coffee ',  which  she  places  on  table,  and  exit. 

James.  It 's  rather  ticklish  staying  about  here,  sir — 
the  paternal  B.  may  return  any  moment. 

Col.  B.  I  won't  go  back  to  the  hotel;  and  curse  me 
if  I  like  a  damp  arbor  in  a  dewy  morning,  but  I  suppose 
I  must  go  into  ambush  again. 

James.     Hurry  up,  sir — here  he  comes.     This  way — 


Emotional  Insanity.  283 

get  out  here.     (Jumps  through  the  window,  banging  it  after 
him.} 

Enter  OLD  BROWN  and  MERELDA. 

OldB.     What's  that? 

James.  Dog  Bowser,  sir — took  a  mutton  chop  off 
your  table,  and  just  tumbled  through  the  window,  sir. 

OldB.     Merelda. 

Merelda.     Sir  ? 

Old  B.  Did  you  ever  hear  a  fellow  .that  could  fabricate 
the  way  this  coachman  of  mine  can  ? 

Merelda.     Really  I  can't  say,  sir. 

Old  B.  He  says  Bowser  went  out  at  that  window  with 
a  mutton  chop.  Now  I  did  n't  order  chops  this  morning, 
but  muffins,  and  Bowser  was  with  us  in  our  walk. 

James.  Well,  sir,  it  was  a  large  Newfoundland,  un- 
commonly like  Bowser,  and  come  to  look,  it  was  a  buttered 
muffin. 

OldB.     James? 
James.     Sir  ? 

Old  B.     Get  out !     Susan. 

Susan.     Sir  ? 

Old  B.  Get  out !  Now,  Merelda,  sit  down  there 
while  I  take  my  coffee.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  that 
fellow.  (She  takes  her  work  and  sits.}  That  Colonel  Bangs 
is  an  adventurer.  He  is  after  my  money.  He  shan't 
have  it.  He  wants  you.  He  shan't  have  you.  You  ran 


284  Emotional  Insanity. 

against  him  at  Saratoga,  where  all  the  rogues,  gamblers, 
sharpers,  thieves,  and  liars  congregate — bah !  He  is  one 
— I  do  n't  know  but  what  he  is  all  of  them — bah !  Because 
he  waltzed  well,  talked  well,  and  dressed  well — the  puppy 
— you  accepted  him.  Bah  !  this  coffee  is  all  grounds. 

Merelda.  Dear  pa,  you  are  so  unreasonable  and  so 
violent. 

Old  B.     What,  about  the  coffee  ? 

Merelda.     No,  about  my  Colonel. 

Old  B.  No,  I  'm  not.  Do  you  know  what  I  discov- 
ered ? 

Merelda.  I  'm  sure  I  do  n't  know — something  very 
absurd,  I  expect. 

Old  B.  No;  it  was  criminal.  While  he  was  courting 
you  he  was  intriguing  with  a  married  woman,  a  vile  blonde ; 
and  he  called  her — the  jackanapes — Saratoga  Common, 
and  you  Saratoga  Preferred. 

Merelda.  Oh!  pa,  how  could  you  listen  to  such  an 
absurd  scandal  ?  I  'm  ashamed  of  you.  , 

Old  B.  See  here,  Merelda,  I  'm  a  plain  man.  I  am 
the  son  of  Johnson,  Brown  &  Co.,  pork.  What  I  have 
I  've  made  by  honest  toil.  I  'm  not  going  to  throw  it 
away  on  an  idle,  worthless  vagabond  who  '11  spend  my 
money  and  break  your  heart.  You  coaxed  me  this  last 
summer  to  Saratoga.  I  got  laughed  at  and  you  fooled. 
It  is  the  resort  of  shams — bah !  women  without  bodies  and 


Emotional  Insanity.  285 

men  without  shame.  I  won't  look  there  for  a  son — no, 
not  I.  Bah!  I  never  met  with  a  man  yet  who  was  brave 
enough  and  honest  enough  to  tell  the  truth.  When  I  do 
I  '11  recommend  him  to  you  as  a  husband.  If  you  take 
him,  good.  If  you  do  n't  take  him  go  farther  and  fare 
worse. 

Enter  OLD  RAGENBAG. 
And  who  are  you  ? 

Rag.     It  do  n't  make  any  manner  of  odds  who  I  am. 
What  is  wanted  to  be  known  is,  who  lost  a  pocketbook  ? 

Old  B.     To  be  sure  !     Why,  I  did. 

Rag.     What  sort,  boss? 

Old  B.     Russia  leather,  a  good  deal  worn. 

Rag.     And  the  pile — 

Old    B.     Three    hundred    and    fifty-one — in    fifties, 
twenties,  and  fives,  with  some  change. 

Rag.     Korrect,  boss. 

Old  B.     And  did  you  find  it  ? 

Rag.     It    don't    make    any   odds    concerning    that. 
There's  the  pocketbook — count  the  money. 

Old  B.     (Counting.')     Three  fifty-one  and  eighty-two 
cents. 

Rag.     Korrect  ? 

Old  B.     Perfectly  correct,  and  there 's  twenty  dollars 
for  your  trouble. 

Rag.     Keep  your  greenbacks,  gov'n'r.     I  did  n't  find 


286  Emotional  Insanity. 

it  no  manner  of  trouble  to  pick  up  that  pocket-book,  and  I 
do  n't  want  any  of  your  money ;  but  if  you  'd  just  let  me 
bring  my  firearm  to  bear  on  that  dog  on  your'n,  that  went 
for  the  seat  of  my  trowsers,  I'd  be  obleeged  to  you. 
(Fetches  old  horse-pistol  out  of  his  bag.")  Dogs  are  dirty 
arastocruts  and  hate  rag  men. 

Old  B.     Why,  who  are  you  ? 

Rag.  I  'm  Old  Ragenbag,  the  ragman.  I  was  brought 
up  on  tombstones  till  eight  years  of  age,  when  my  father, 
the  sexton,  died,  and  then  I  got  to  be  chief  engineer  to  a 
blind  hand-organ,  when  I  carried  the  charitable  cup  in  a 
solemn  manner  through  the  crowds.  The  blind  hand- 
organ  was  a  vicious  old  cuss,  and  I  was  kicked  and  cuffed 
through  creation  many  years,  till  I  up  and  run'd  away. 
Then  I  j'ined  the  church  ag'in  and  became  deputy  grave- 
digger  ;  then  I  was  promoted  to  sexton,  and  lost  my  place 
through  a  bad  habit  I  had  uv  tellin'  uv  the  truth. 

Old  B.     Why,  how  was  that  ? 

Rag.  Well,  you  see  we  had  a  revival,  and  it  was  my 
duty  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  wicked  young  men  and  boys 
who'd  put  brimstone  in  the  stove,  and  make  us  smell  hell 
when  we  was  a  sarchin'  for  heaven;  an'  I  was  watchin' 
round  a  dark  corner  for  them  wicked  young  men  when  I 
come  on  Deacon  Snailor  and  Sister  Maria  Potts,  and  the 
Deacon  began  to  holler  he  see  'd  the  Prophet  a  goin'  up — 
and  then  he  called  on  me  in  meetin'  to  say  ef  I  had  n't 


Emotional  Insanity.  287 

seen  that  miracle,  and  I  said  no,  but  I'd  seen  Deacon 
Snailor  a  kissin'  Sister  Maria  Potts  in  a  promiscuous  man- 
ner, an'  they  asked  ef  I  'd  swear  to  that,  and  I  said  yes, 
I  Jd  be  damned  ef  I  would  'nt.  I  was  charged  with  lyin', 
but  was  excommunicated  for  profane  language.  Then  I 
went  into  the  antique  wearin'  apparel  business,  an'  the 
country  all  around  knows  me  as  "Truthful  Rag,"  " Little 
Hatchet,"  and  "  Old  George,"  because  I  never  was  known 
to  prevaricate.  Rags!  Rags! 

Old  B.    You  're  the  man  I  've  been  looking  for.    Give 
me  your  honest  hand ;  I  engage  you  from  this  minute. 

Rag.     What  for? 

Old  B.     To  stand  by  me  and  tell  the  truth. 

Rag.     Look  at  here — don't  you  poke  fun  at  me.     I 
do  n't  allow  no  man  that  privilege. 

Old  B.     I  am  in  earnest ;  I  engage  you  this  minute ; 
I  '11  give  you  liberal  wages. 

Rag.     To  tell  the  truth  at  your  elbow? 

Old  B.     Exactly. 

Rag.     Well,  boss,  while  I  'm  engaged  in  that  pursuit 
what  '11  you  do  ? 

Old  B.     I  '11  enter  into  bonds  to  stand  by  you  and  forfeit 
fifty  dollars  for  every  lie  I  tell. 

Rag.     Just  put  that  in  writing,  boss. 

Old  B.     (  Writes].     There  we  are. 

Rag.     Korrect. 


288  Emotional  Insanity. 

Old  B.  My  daughter,  you  see  before  you  one  of 
nature's  noblemen — your  true  aristocrat. 

Merelda.  Glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Hon.  Mr. 
Ragman. 

Rag.  Same  to  you,  Miss.  Hope  you  '11  have  an  hon- 
est husband,  and  children  as  will  be — 

Enter  servant  with  MRS.  WILLOWS. 

Ser.     Mrs.  Widow  Willows,  sir. 

Widow.  I  am  sorry  to  intrude  upon  you,  Mr.  Brown, 
but  I'm  forced  to  make  an  appeal  in  behalf  of  fourteen 
fatherless  children. 

Old  B.  Really,  my  good  woman,  I  pay  so  much  for 
the  poor  that  I  havn't  a  cent. 

Rag.  Hello !  hello !  Boss,  that  wo  n't  do.  Here 's 
your  pocket-book,  fat  as  a  seal.  Now,  if  you  do  n't  want 
to  give,  say  so. 

Old  B.     Tut,  tut,  man,  I  can't  spare  the  money. 

Rag.     Then  out  with  it — don't  lie  about  it. 

Old  B.  Bless  my  soul!  Well,  here,  take  it.  Now, 
go,  good  woman. 

Widow.  May  the  blessings  of  the  fatherless  fall  on  your 
aged  head. 

Rag.     (Taking  off  his  hat.}     Amen.     Now  go,  widder. 
(Exit  Widow.} 

Merelda.  (Laughing.}  I  fear  pa,  nature's  aristocrat, 
like  the  other  aristocrats,  will  be  found  rather  extravagant. 


Emotional  Insanity.  289 

Old  B.     Oh !  bother — he  do  n't  understand,  you  see. 

Merelda.     No,  I  fear  not. 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.  Delegation  of  citizens  making  an  appeal  for  the 
home  for  indignant  females. 

Old  B.     Indigent  females,  you  fool !     Show  'em  in — 
I  've  been  bored  to  death  reading  their  appeals  in  behalf 
of  that  swindle — bah ! — and  now  they  come  in  person. 
Enter  Delegation. 

Chairman.  Mr.  Brown,  we  come  to  you  as  a  wealthy 
and  influential  citizen,  in  behalf  of  a  home  for  indigent 
females. 

Old  B.  Yes,  gentlemen,  but  I  really  have  not  had 
time  to  read  your  memorial. 

Rag.     There  you  go,  boss — lie  number  two — 

Old  B.     But— 

Rag.  Not  a  but.  You  said  you  've  been  bored  with 
that  swindle ;  but  will  it  be  a  little  harder  now  to  tell  the 
truth,  or  forfeit  ? 

Old  B.     You  misunderstood  me. 

Rag.     Not  a  bit  uv  it. 

Merelda.     No,  pa — the  Hon.  Mr.  Rag-bag  is  right. 

Old  B.  Here,  give  me  your  paper.  I  subscribe  one 
share. 

Chairman.     Thank  you,  sir;  your  influence  is  more  to 
us  than  the  money.     Good  morning,  sir.     (Exuent.) 
25 


290  Emotional  Insanity. 

Merelda.     This  is  delicious. 

Old  B.     Miss,  you  go  to  your  room  ! 

Merelda.     Certainly.     Good  morning,  Hon.  Rag-bag. 

Rag.     Mornin',  Miss.     (Exit  MERELDA.) 

Old  B.     Now  look  here,  old  man. 

Rag.     I  'm  looking. 

Old  B.     There  are  certain  reasons — 

Rag.     For  lyin'  ? 

Old  B.  Why  no,  not  exactly  lying ;  but  I  '11  explain 
after  while.  That  will  do  for  the  present.  Here,  James ! 
{Rings.  Enter  JAMES.)  Here,  you;  this  is  my  friend 
Ragenbag.  I  have  employed  him  as  an  antidote  to  your 
rascality.  H$,  is  an  honest  man  and  tells  the  truth.  See 
that  he  is  well  cared  for.  {Exit.) 

James.     Truthful  man,  permit  me  to  vibrate ! 

Rag.     What 's  that  ? 

James.  Old  Probity,  that  is  a  proposition  to  shake 
your  honest  hand. 

Rag.     Oh!  certainly.     (Gives  him  awring.) 

James.  Gewhilicans !  Did  you  labor  under  the  delu- 
sion that  you  was  a  patent  double-cog  clothes-wringer  ? 

Rag.     That 's  what  I  call  a  shake  of  an  honest  hand, 

James.  Well,  I  don't  care  to  belong  to  that  lodge — 
the  grip  is  too  much  for  me.  What  did  the  old  bumble  B. 
say  you  were  engaged  to  do  ? 

Rag.     Tell  the  truth. 


Emotional  Insanity.  291 

James.     No,  now — honest  Injun  ? 

Rag.     Young  feller,  when  I  say  a  thing  I  mean  it. 

James.  He  is  to  go  around  and  tell  the  truth.  I  say, 
you  ought  to  have  good  wages,  old  man. 

Rag.     Why  so  ? 

James.  When  a  man  goes  into  the  business  of  butting 
stone  walls  he  ought  to  have  plenty  of  shinplasters  to  cover 
his  bruises.  Have  you  got  a  padded  cap  for  a  helmet  and 
a  stuffed  shield  for down,  then? 

Rag.     What  do  I  want  with  them  things  ? 

James.  For  protection.  If  you  do  n't  get  more  kicks 
and  cuffs  than  coppers  I'm  a  heathen. 

Rag.     What 's  your  occupation  ? 

James.     Mine?     Why,  lying,  principally. 

Rag.     Young  feller,  ain't  you  ashamed  ? 

James.  Ashamed !  old  Honesty !  I  am  covered  with 
blushes.  But  it  Js  the  way  of  this  wicked  world.  Truth 
is  a  luxury — can  I  have  luxuries?  Look  at  my  dependent 
family  of  fourteen  children  and  an  aged  father  crying  like 
little  ravens  for  food ! 

Rag.     Poor  young  man ! 

James.     Now  this  venerable  mother — 

Rag.     You  said  father  just  now. 

James.  Suppose  I  did;  would  you  deprive  me  of  a 
mother  ? 

Rag.     Oh !  no. 


292  Emotional  Insanity. 

James.     Well,  then,  do  n't  cut  'em  off. 

Ra%.  And  can't  you  take  care  of  'em  in  honesty  and 
truth  ? 

James.  Certainly  not.  There  is  no  demand  for  them 
articles.  Nobody  tries  it  on.  Look  at  the  merchant — 
is  n't  his  profits  lies  ?  Look  at  the  doctor — ar  n't  his 
doses  falsehoods  ?  What 's  a  lawyer  but  a  lie — 

Rag.  Young  man,  would  you  mind  giving  me  a  little 
bread  and  cheese  ? 

James.  Do  I  look  like  a  man  who  would  refuse  you 
bread  and  cheese  ? 

Rag.     Would  you  mind  adding  a  drop  of  ale  ? 

James.  Do  I  look  like  a  man  who  'd  deny  you  ale  ? 
(Rings.  Enter  servant.}  Here,  Thomas,  give  this  aged 
citizen  large  quantities  of  bread  and  cheese  and  the  small- 
est quantity  of  ale.  (To  RAGENBAG.)  Follow  him,  Old 
Honesty.  (Exeunt  RAGENBAG  and  THOMAS.)  My  Col- 
onel pitched  this  in  at  my  window,  tied  to  a  stone.  Let 
me  see  what  it  is.  (Reads.}  "Jim,  look  out.  I  heard 
two  detectives  near  my  ambush  talking  to  each  other. 
They  are  watching  the  house — look  sharp.  J.  B."  A 
detective!  That's  a  fellow,  too  stupid  for  a  thief,  who 
turns  thief-catcher  so  as  to  divide  all  around.  I  have  it, 
by  Jove !  Old  Honesty  is  one  of  them.  Ah-ha!  Caught 
you  there !  Let  me  see — I  '11  smoke  him.  Here  's  his 
bag.  Now  if  this  bag  is  filled  with  shavings — and  I  '11  bet 


Emotional  Insanity.  293 

it  is — I  've  got  him  sure ;  and  I  '11  have  him  kicked  out  for 
a  burglar.  (Is  about  to  open  bag  when  SUSAN  enters.  JAMES 
hearing  her,  whistles  in  an  unconcerned  manner,  dropping  the 
bag.}  Oh!  is  that  you,  Susan? 

Susan.  Certainly,  Mr.  James — came  for  the  cups. 
But  what  are -you  doing  with  that  nasty  bag? 

James.  I  'm  a  committee  of  seventy  selected  to  smell 
out  fraud,  and  show  the  difference  between  Tweedle-do 
and  Tweedle-done. 

Susan.     I  do  n't  understand. 

James.  Few  do.  Now  I  have  wagered  an  immense 
sum  with  myself  that  this  bag  is  stuffed  with  shavings. 
Now  hold  it. 

Susan.     Ah,  the  dirty  thing ! 

James.  (Pulling  out  a  pair  of  ragged  pants.)  Lost,  by 
Jove !  See,  Susan,  these  are  what  the  females  are  fighting 
for.  We  '11  s-end  them  with  our  compliments  to  Miss  Susan 
Anthony  and  Cady  Stanton.  {Pulls  out  pannier.)  And, 
here,  Susan,  the  vanities.  And  now,  me  love,  tell  me 
why  this  is  like  a  tale  in  the  Ledger.  Give  it  up? 

Susan.     Of  course. 

James.  It  is  a  tail  of  pleasing  fiction  based  on  a  stern 
reality. 

Susan.     Ain't  you  ashamed ! 

James.  So  ashamed  I  blush.  {Pulls  out  petticoat.} 
And  this,  Susan  is  what  moves  the  world — a  petticoat. 


294  Emotional  Insanity. 

''Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home,  by  angel's  hands 
to  valor  given." 

Susan.     I  won't  stay  and  hear  such  stuff. 

James.  Hold,  me  tuberose — here's  papers.  Let  me 
see :  delicate  sheets — fine,  scratchy  female  writing.  (Reads.) 
"  Dearest  Harry — You  swear  never  to  desert  your  loving 
Maria."  See,  Susan,  love  and  letter  thrown  away — tram- 
pled under  foot,  and  then  to  the  rag-bag.  ' '  To  what  base 
uses  do  we  come  at  last !  "  Oh !  bother — this  old  fellow 
is  no  detective.  If  he  was  smart  enough  to  get  up  this 
thing  to  deceive,  he  'd  be  an  alderman ;  we  'd  find  him  in 
the  Credit  Lobelia.  Hello!  there  comes  the  old  Bumble 
B.  Hurry,  Susan.  (  Tumbles  articles  into  the  bag,  throws  it 
behind  sofa,  and  exit.  Susan  takes  tray  and  goes  out  as  OLD 
BROWN  and  RAGENBAG  enter.) 

Old  B.  I  hope  you  find  yourself  comfortable  here, 
my  truthful  friend. 

Rag.  Well,  can't  complain.  Grub's  good,  I  must 
say.  But  there 's  a  feller  here  in  brass  buttons  an'  a  good 
deal  of  brass  in  his  face,  that  for  cool,  downright  lyin' 
beats  bobtail. 

Old  B.  James — oh,  I  know  him ;  he  's  the  poison — 
you're  the  antidote.  (Seats  himself  at  table.)  Now  I 
want  you — 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Servant.    There's  a  lady  here,  sir,  says  she  must  see  you. 


Emotional  Insanity.  295 

Old  B.  Well,  let  her  see  me.  Another  beggar,  I 
suppose. 

Enter  MRS.   RAVEN    WILD. 

Mrs.  W.  I  wish  to  see  you  a  few  moments,  Mr. 
Brown,  in  private. 

Old  B.  This  is  a  confidential  friend  of  mine,  Madam ; 
you  can  speak  freely  before  him.  Take  a  seat. 

Mrs.  W.  I  am  in  deep  trouble.  I  come  to  you — I 
need  advice.  I  want  your  sympathy. 

Rag.     He  '11  give  lots  of  that,  Madam — so  will  I. 

Old  B.     Mr.  Ragenbag,  do  n't  interrupt  the  lady. 

Mrs.  W.  You  see  before  you,  sir,  an  oppressed  wife 
— a  miserable  woman.  Married  at  an  age  when  I  could  not 
use  maturer  wisdom,  I  united  myself  to  a  man  who  could 
not  appreciate  the  refined  delicacy  of  my  sentiments,  the 
tender  organization  of  my  feelings.  I  longed  for  sym- 
pathy, love  and  companionship ;  he  wanted  a  slave — he 
called  it  wife.  A  poet  by  nature  I  soared  from  earth 
into  the  heaven  of  imagination.  I  sought  for  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  poets ;  he,  of  the  earth,  earthy,  would  bind 
me  to  a  wash-tub. 

Old  B.     Ragenbag  ! 

Rag.     Sir? 

Old  B.     This  female  is  crazy. 

Rag.     Korrect. 

Mrs.  W.     Do  you  heed  me,  sir  ?     Life  became  unen. 


296  Emotional  Insanity. 

durable.  At  last,  at  a  fashionable  summer  resort,  I  met 
my  affinity — a  sympathetic  soul.  Ah!  the  long  summer 
rides  and  walks — the  heaven  on  earth  !  We  separated— 
we  corresponded.  As  I  saw  one  I  could  love,  and  one 
who  could  appreciate,  I  seemed  to  draw  near  and  nearer 
my  misery.  I  looked  my  horrible  fate  in  the  face— I 
could  not  bear  it.  (  Weeps.) 

Rag.     ( Weeping.)     Boss,  she  could  not  bear  it. 

Old  B.  It  is  very  touching.  Ragenbag.  (Aside.) 
And  she  's  very  good-looking,  especially  in  tears.  Go  on, 
Madam. 

Mrs.  W.  Oh !  sir,  imagine  if  you  can  the  desolate 
soul  doomed  to  everlasting  servitude — no  hope,  no  heaven, 
no  relief! 

Rag.     (Sadly.)     No  relief,  boss. 

Old  B.  None  whatever,  Ragenbag,  save  in  a  Chicago 
divorce. 

Mrs.  W.  A  divorce  !  And  were  I  to  seek  justice  in 
a  court,  what  would  be  the  response  from  heartless  men, 
our  masters  ? 

Old  B.     Blessed  if  I  know — do  you,  Ragenbag  ? 

Rag.     None  whatsomever. 

Mrs.  W.  I  took  my  fate  in  my  own  hand — I  fled. 
My  affinity  wrote  me  from  this  place.  I  came,  but  oh 
heavens !  not  to  find  him.  Thinking  you  might  know 
some  way  out  of  this  fearful  labyrinth  of  lost  hope,  I 


Emotional  Insanity.  297 

throw  myself  upon  your  mercy.    I  ask,  I  beg,  I  plead  your 
gentle  protection.     (To  RAGENBAG.)     Are  you  a  father? 

Rag.     Not  much. 

Mrs.   W.     (To  OLD  BROWN.)     Are  you  a  father ? 

Old  B.     I  am. 

Mrs.  W.  Then  as  a  father  I  appeal  to  you.  You  will 
shield  and  protect  rue. 

Old  B.  I  will.  Ragenbag,  we  will  shield  and  pro- 
tect— 

Rag.     We  will,  gov'nor — 

Old  B.     Die  defending  injured  innocence. 

Rag.   '  Die  in  our  tracks. 

Servant.     (Outside.}     You  can't  come  in,  sir. 

Mr.  W.  I  will  go  in.  Get  out  of  my  way,  you 
fellow. 

Mrs.  W.  Oh,  heavens !  My  husband !  Where 
shall  I  fly?  Hide  me — protect  me — he  is  mad  with 
jealousy!  (Rushes  into  room.} 

Enter  WILD  pushing  servant?) 

Mr.   W.     Can't  come  in  ?     I  '11  see  if  I  can't. 

Old  B.     And  who  are  you,  sir  ? 

Mr.  W.  Me,  sir — me,  sir  ?  I  'm  an  injured  hus- 
band, sir;  I  am  threatened  with  emotional  insanity. 
Beware ! 

Old  B.     And  do  you  know  who  I  am,  sir  ? 

Mr.   W.     No,  I  do  n't.    • 


298  Emotional  Insanity. 

Old  B.  I  am  James  Brown,  Esq.,  proprietor  of  these 
premises,  and  I  'd  like  to  know — 

Mr.  W.  Ah,  ha!  You're  J.  B.,  are  you?  You're 
"  my  sweet  James,"  "  adoring  James  " — you  hoary-headed 
villain  ! 

OldB.     Sir! 

Mr.  W.  Do  n't  interrupt  me — I  feel  the  fit  coming  on. 
I  '11  murder  you  in  a  minute. 

Old  B.  This  is  an  infernal  outrage  !  Will  you  please 
tell  me — 

Mr.  W.  Of  course  I  will.  Reason,  hold  your  own 
while  I  tell  this  aged  seducer  of  wives  his  villainy.  My 
wife  is  a  fool,  sir,  a  sentimental  fool — a  poetic  fool.  We 
didn't  agree.  What  of  that?  What  married  pair  does 
agree  ?  She  suddenly  left  my  bed  and  board.  I  found  a 
note  from  her — I  found  several  notes  to  her — letters,  sir, 
love-letters  dated  at  this  town  and  signed  J.  B. — your  lov- 
ing James.  I  came  here,  sir — I  came  with  two  detectives. 
Two  detectives  examined  directory  and  found  the  J.  B. — 
James  Brown — you,  sir — you  !  Reason,  hold  your  own. 
More,  sir.  Detectives  tracked  her  to  this  house.  I  saw 
her  myself — lace  shawl,  yellow  hat  and  feather.  Think  I 
do  n't  know  them  ?  Cost  me  twenty  dollars.  Now,  be- 
fore I  go  mad,  you  aged  seducer,  where 's  my  wife  ? 
( While  he  is  talking,  OLD  B.  is  erecting  a  barricade  of  tables 
and  chairs  before  him.) 


Emotional  Insanity.  299 

Old  B.     How  do  I  know  ? 

Mr.  W.  She's  here— she's  on  these  premises — the 
premises  of  James  Brown,  Esq. 

Old  B.     No,  she  is  n't. 

Rag.     Hold  hard,  boss,  do  n't  lie. 

Old  B.  (Aside  to  RAG.)  Would  you  have  me  mur- 
dered ! 

Rag.     Never  mind  that.     What's  death  to  veracity? 

Mr.  W.  Where  is  she,  you  whited  sepulchers — 
you  aged  villains  ? 

Rag.  Do  n't  be  abusive,  young  man.  Your  wife  is  in 
this  room. 

Old  B.     Oh  Lord ! 

Mr.   W.     Let  me  at  her ! 

Rag.  No,  you  do  n't.  We  do  n't  allow  no  obstreperous 
conduct  in  this  house,  an'  we  've  had  about  enough  uv 
your  noise. 

Mr.   W.     Do  you  dare  stand  in  my  way  ? 

Rag.     Uv  course. 

Mr.  W.  Do  you  see  that,  wretched  man.  (Present- 
ing revolver.}  That  is  a  Colt,  and  carries  four  chambers 
of  death. 

Rag.  I  see  that  an*  go  one  better.  (Presenting 
pistol.}  That  is  a  hoss.  Now  ef  you  do 'n't  drop  that  in- 
strument there  '11  be  a  sudden  death  in  yer  family. 

Mr.  W.     Am  I   to  be  baffled   thus  of  my  revenge? 


300  Emotional  Insanity. 

No!  I '11  kill  the  hoary-headed  seducer.  (Turning,  sees 
OLD  B.,  stealing  out.)  Flies  from  me!  Whoop!  Now, 
I  'm  mad !  (Rushes  after.  RAG.  follows,  four  shots  heard, 
and  then  a  heavy  explosion  from  horse  pistol.) 
Enter,  screaming  MERELDA,  MRS.  RAVEN  WILD,  SUSAN 
and  JAMES. 

Merelda.     What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?    James,  where 
is  my  father? 

James.  (Getting  on  a  chair.)  Miss,  he  's  making  about 
the  best  time,  for  an  old  gentleman,  down  the  main  walk 
that  I  ever  saw.  Emotional  Insanity  is  gaining  on  him, 
and  old  Rags  fetches  up  the  rear.  Two  to  one  on  Emo- 
tional Insanity !  Now  its  neck  and  neck — old  Rags  spurts 
and  closes  on  them  !  They  have  tumbled  into  the  bower 
and  unearthed  the  Colonel !  He  jockeys  on  Emotional 
Insanity  !  Now  they  come  at  a  tremendous  pace !  A 
blanket  would  cover  the  entire  party.  Your  father  spurts 
— he  takes  the  lead !  Ten  to  one  on  paternal !  Here  he  is 
on  the  home  stretch.  Whoop,  hurrah ! 
Enter  OLD  B.,  who  throivs  himself  breathless  upon  the  sofa,  fol- 
lowed by  COLONEL  BANGS,  holding  on  to  WILD.  After, 
enter  OLD  RAGENBAG. 

Col.  B.     (Throwing  off  WILD.)     There,   you   hound! 
What  does  all  this  mean  ? 

Mrs.   W.     (Throwing  herself  on  COLONEL   B.)     Take 
me,  protect  me ! 


Emotional  Insanity.  301 

CoL  B.  (Seating  her  abruptly  in  a  chair.}  Certainly, 
I  '11  protect  you  !  I  '11  protect  any  body — I  '11  protect  every 
body !  But  I  would  like  to  know  what  all  this  is  about. 

Mr.  W.  She  calls  on  you  for  protection.  Perhaps 
you  are  my  man.  Did  you  write  these  letters  ?  (Showing 
letters.} 

James.  Hello !  Let  me  see  them.  Why,  what  are 
you  doing  with  my  love-letters  ? 

Mr.   W.     Yours? 

James.  Yes,  mine,  Emotional  Insanity — and  not  ad- 
dressed to  you,  either. 

Susan.     What,  Mr.  Jim ! 

James  (Aside  to  SUSAN.  )  •  Hush  !  I  'm  executing  a 
flank  movement  to  extricate  my  Colonel. 

Mr.  W.  Now,  Mrs.  Wild,  if  you  have  any  sense  left 
in  your  idiotic  head,  will  you  tell  me  which  of  these  gen- 
tlemen you  eloped  with  ? 

Mrs.  W.  Why,  none  of  them.  I  fled  alone  from 
your  brutality,  as  I  wrote  you.  I  came  here  in  search  of 
one  who  once  said  he  loved;  but, alas  !  he  disowns  me. 

Mr.   W.     And  who  wrote  these  letters  ? 

Mrs.  W.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  This  gentleman 
says  he  did. 

James.  Yes,  and  I  'd  like  to  know  how  you,  or  your 
wife  either,  got  hold  of  them. 


302  Emotional  Insanity. 

Mr.  W.  Well,  are  you  going  back  with  me  after  this 
wild-goose  chase  ? 

Mrs.  W.  Well,  I  suppose  so,  you  brute.  And  if  you 
do  n't  treat  me  better  I  '11  turn  woman's  rights,  and  lec- 
ture. There  now ! 

Old  B.  Colonel,  you  have  saved  my  life  threatened 
by  these  lunatics.  I  forgive  you,  nay,  I  do  more,  I  give 
you  my  daughter.  Bless  you,  my  children  ! 

Rag.  Amen  !  Now,  boss,  shall  we  go  on  in  the  cause 
of  truth  ? 

Old  B.  No,  my  Christian  friend,  I  have  had  truth 
enough  to  do  me  the  rest  of  my  natural  life.  I  find  by 
experience  that  a  little  lying  is  necessary  to  oil  the  wheels 
of  civilized  society.  It  is  only  among  wild  Indians  and 
Friend  Quakers  that  the  truth  is  common,  and  it  is  dan- 
gerous with  one  and  very  disagreeable  with  the  other. 


BLENNERHASSETT'S  ISLAND. 


CHARACTERS. 

AARON  BURR. 

HARMAN  BLENNERHASSETT,  English  gentleman,  wealthy 
and  scholarly,  living  a  secluded  but  luxurious  life  on  an  island  of 
the  Ohio  river. 

MRS.  BLENNERHASSETT,  beautiful  and  cultured. 

WOLF,  a  renegade.  Victor  Brady,  an  old  lover  of  Mrs. 
Blennerhassett's. 

BARBARA  DAIR,  discarded  love  of  Burr's.  Enoch  Brand, 
a  government  messenger. 

CAPTAIN  WILKINSON,  commanding  United  States  troops. 

MIKE  FINK,  ) 

"OLD  GETTYSBURG,") 

MAHALA,  Indian  girl. 

SCIPIO,  Blennerhassett's  colored  servant. 

Soldiers,  hunters,  boatmen,  regulators  and  messengers. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE:  portion  of  Blennerhassett's  Island,  giving  the  lawn 
in  front  of  house  and  view  of  the  river.  The  house  is  large  but 
rustic,  built  of  logs  with  porch  having  trunks  of  trees  for  columns 
to  support  roof  made  of  clap-boards  held  down  by  poles. 

As  the  curtain  rises  a  chorus  of  men  is  heard  approaching  as 
if  rowing. 

(303) 


304  BlennerhasseW  s  Island. 

"  Oh,  ho!  boatmen,  row, 
We're  floating  on  the  waters  of  the  O-hi-o." 

Enter  OLD  GET,  MIKE  FINK,  and  others  carrying  deer. 

Old  Get.  There  boys,  take  the  carcass  to  the  Colonel's 
kitchen  and  tell  that  son  of  Satan,  the  cook,  to  throw  us 
enough  for  supper. 

Hunters.  All  right,  Get.  (They  carry  off  deer  and  re- 
turn.} 

Old  Get.  We  '11  get  more  sass  than  venison  I  guess. 
I  'd  like  to  take  that  nigger  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck  and 
the  seat  of  his  breeches  and  just  pitch  him  into  hell  fire, 
I  would ! 

Mike.  Seein'  he  aint  your  nigger,  old  man,  the  owner 
might  think  you  was  takin'  liberties  and  that  would  hurt 
his  feelin's. 

Old  Get.  Col.  Blennerhassett  is  a  mighty  good  man, 
but  he  keeps  the  meanest  niggers — the  most  ornery  critters 
ever  sot  on  end.  For  my  part  I  'm  glad  we  're  goin'  to 
haul  off  to-morrow.  I  can't  stand  sass  generally,  but  sass 
from  a  nigger  riles  my  bile  till  I  am  ready  to  bite. 

First  Hunter.  Do  you  know,  old  man,  whar  we  're 
goin'  top 

Old  Get.  Sonny,  I  haint  the  remotest  idea.  They 
tells  us  we'  uns  air  emigrants  goin'  to  settle  Col.  Burr's  land. 

Mike.  Well  that's  good  to  tell  the  women,  children, 
and  weak-minded  critters,  but  I  know  a  thing  or  two. 


Blcnnerhassett ' s  Island.  305 

First  Hunter.     Tell  us  all  you  know. 

Old  Get.  Now  boys  ef  you  set  that  young  man  to 
tellin'  all  he  knows  we  won  t  get  off  this  island  for  a  year, 
and  not  then  ef  he  aint  exhausted. 

First  Hunter.  Oh,  you  make  too  much  noise  with 
your  mouth.  Go  on,  Mike. 

Mike.  Well,  then,  it  aint  common  to  drill  men  in 
platoons  to  settle  new  land  nor  to  fight  Injuns.  Now,  is  it  ? 

Hunters.     No  it  aint. 

Mike.  Well,  aint  we  bein'  drilled  by  Colonel  Burr, 
night  and  day — now,  aint  that  so  ? 

Hunters.     It  air,  it  air. 

Mike.  Well,  then,  enny  damned  fool  would  know — 
why  Old  Get  here  would  know — that  something 's  up  be- 
sides settlin'  land  and  settlin'  Injuns. 

Old  Get.  Oh,  you  're  too  damned  smart  you  air,  aint 
it  necessary  to  have  soldiers  to  fight  Injuns  ? 

Mike.  No,  it  just  aint — soldier  fightin'  is  by  platoon, 
and  Injun  fightin'  is  for  every  feller  to  keep  his  eye  skinned 
and  hug  the  trees.  Now,  aint  that  so  ? 

Hunters.     It  air,  it  air. 

Old  Get.  Oh,  much  you  know !  My  father  fit  in  the 
revolution  and  I  fit — 

Mike.     Oh,  thunder  !     What 's  that  got  to  do  with  it  ? 
But  I  know  something  else.     You  know  them  big  boxes 
in  the  bottom  of  our  broad  horn  ? 
26 


306  Blennerhassetf  s  Island. 

Hunters.     We  does— we  does. 

Mike.  Well,  the  head  of  one  marked  "  bacon  "got 
knocked  off,  and  I  saw  the  muzzle  of  the  biggest  gun  ever 
made.  Why,  a  feller  could  put  his  head  in  it.  Least- 
wise, Old  Get  could  put  his  in  easy.  Is  them  guns  for 
Injuns,  boys  ?  I  reckon  not. 

Old  Get.  What  do  you  know  about  big  guns  ?  Let 
me  tell  you  about  a  gun — 

Mike.  There,  boys — come  here ;  Old  Get  is  preparin' 
— Old  Get 's  goin'  to  bust  a  big  gun  on  us. 

Old  Get.  What  I  'm  goin'  to  tell  you  is  God's  truth, 
jist  to  show  ye  what  ye  do  n't  know  about  guns. 

Mike.     Pole  her  off,  pole  her  off,  old  warrior. 

Old  Get.  Whin  I  was  in  Gettisburg  I  was  ridin'  home 
on  my  mare,  Sunflower,  when  the  awfullest  storm  come 
up  ever  known  in  thim  parts.  I  jist  happened  to  know  of 
an  old  cannon  on  the  side  of  the  road  that  was  left  by  the 
British  in  the  Revolution,  and  I  jist  rode  my  mare  into  the 
mouth  of  it. 

(The  hunters  hold  up  their  hands  and  whistle.) 

Mike.  Hold  on,  hold  on;  take  a  turn  around  a  root, 
the  old  man  aint  under  way  yet. 

Old  Get.  Well,  it  got  as  dark  as  midnight,  and  the 
flashes  of  lightnin'  clean  blinded  a  feller.  While  I  was 
waitin'  the  stage  coach  came  tearin'  along,  and  I  be 
damned  if  the  driver  didn't  drive  helter-split  right  into 


Blennerhassett*  s  Island.  307 

the  mouth  of  the  cannon  and  killed  his  two  leaders  agin 
the  lower  eend. 

Mike.     And  how  did  you  escape? 

Old  Get.  Escape  ?  Whin  I  heard  the  thing  thunder  in' 
in,  I  jist  realized  the  danger  quick  as  wink,  and  I  put 
spurs  to  Sunflower  and  leaped  her  out  at  the  touch  hole. 

Mike.      Give   him   the   honors,   boys;    give   him   the 
honors.     That 's  the  biggest  lie  yet. 
Enter  SCIP. 

Scip.  De  grub  foh  de4  common  white  trash  is  now  pre- 
pahed .  (Exeunt  all. ) 

Mike.  {Following.}  If  that  aged  African  do  n't  strike 
a  snag  before  long,  I  do  n't  know  the  nature  of  the  river 
hereabouts. 

Enter  MR.  and  MRS.  BLENNERHASSETT. 

Mrs.  Blen.  These  hunting  expeditions  are  so  perilous, 
my  love,  that  I  count  the  hours  in  dread  till  your  return. 
But  I  can  not  bid  you  stay,  for  hunting  is  your  only  occu- 
pation and  amusement. 

Bkn.  Shooting  game  and  being  shot  at  by  Indians 
make  rather  an  exciting  life.  It  is  selfish  of  me,  for  it 
leaves  you  all  alone  at  home. 

Mrs.  Blen.  Not  all  alone;  I  have  my  love  of  you 
ever  with  me — truest,  bravest,  and  most  generous  of  men. 
But  for  your  danger  I  would  be  well  content. 

Blen.     I   fear  you   deceive   me,   dearest,   or  deceive 


308  Blennerhassetf  s  Island. 

yourself.  I  see  you  changing  day  by  day.  The  smile 
you  greet  me  with  is  one  of  patience,  resignation,  not 
of  joy.  Small  wonder,  though;  these  wilds  and  wilder 
settlers  are  not  the  scenes  and  people  my  peerless  love 
was  born  to  grace. 

Mrs.  Bkn.  Not  that,  my  own,  not  that.  I  have  no 
thought  of  or  care  for  the  vain  life  I  put  behind  me. 

Bkn.     What !  my  love  ? 

Mrs.  Blen.  We  have  escaped  detraction — escaped  the 
mocking  eye  of  men  and  the  stinging  tongue  of  women — 
but  Oh !  my  heart,  our  sin  we  carry  to  the  wilderness  and 
is  ever  with  us.  Waking  or  dreaming,  I  see  the  home  I 
made  desolate,  the  husband  I  betrayed. 

Bkn.  These  thoughts  are  morbid,  love.  The  home 
you  left  was  never  home  to  you.  The  husband  you 
fled  from  was  but  a  brute.  I  see  this  solitary  life,  this 
brooding  wilderness,  makes  you  ill.  And  that  reminds 
me,  pet,  this  Colonel  Burr  offers  to  us  a  change.  He  begs 
us  to  accompany  him  in  his  expedition. 

Mrs.  Bkn.  Something  within  bids  me  fear  this  man. 
He  is  so  subtle,  polished,  calm.  There  is  no  impulse  in 
him,  and  his  honeyed  words  seem  prompted  by  design  his 
words  conceal. 

Blen.  We  have  lived  so  long  among  rough  men  a 
gentleman  appears  unnatural  and  therefore  suspicious. 
Hush,  he  approaches. 


Blennerhassett  's  Island.  309 

Enter  AARON  BURR. 

Burr.  (After  a  pause — looking  off.)  I  do  not  wonder, 
that  you,  my  friend,  are  fascinated  with  this  lovely  home. 
See  where  rosy  evening  nestles  in  the  arms  of  night,  while 
the  flowing  river  turns  to  waves  of  gold  and  the  rich 
autumnal  tints  of  wooded  banks  make  earth  a  part  of 
heaven.  The  world  seems  fresh  from  God's  own  hand 
unmarred  by  man's  abusive  waste. 

Blen.     One  wearies  of  the  sameness  after  a  time. 

Burr.  That  is  true.  The  great  Johnson  tells  us  how 
Rassalas  tired  of  the  happy  valley,  and  I  believe  had 
Adam  and  Eve  been  Yankees  they/would  not  have  waited 
for  the  Lord  to  turn  them  from  the  garden  of  Eden ;  they 
would  have  emigrated  long  before  and  gone  to  speculating 
in  wild  lands.  After  all,  human  life  and  human  effort  are 
necessities  to  us. 

Mrs.  Blen.  We  have  our  human  life,  Colonel,  never 
fear.  This  paradise  is  a  refuge  for  criminals  escaping  con- 
viction and  convicts  escaping  punishment.  Why,  even 
red-handed  murder  with  the  mark  of  Cain  comes  to  us. 

Blen.  My  wife  has  a  sharp  tongue  for  our  lower  set- 
tlement. You  must  pardon  her. 

Burr.     God  never  placed  an  angel  to  guard  a  sacred 
place  without  arming  her  with  a  flaming  sword. 
Enter  BARBARA  DAIR  disguised  as  a  government  messenger. 

Blen.     Whom  have  we  here  ? 


310  Blennerhassett  's  Island. 

Barb.     Mr.  Blennerhassett? 

Blen.     At  your  service. 

Barb.  I  am  a  government  messenger  in  search  of 
Colonel  Burr. 

Burr.  You  find  him  here,  my  boy.  What  have  you 
for  me  ? 

Barb.  This  package  of  papers  sent  you  through  the 
care  of  the  War  Department. 

Burr.  Thanks,  my  lad.  Will  madam  pardon  me  ? 
(Takes papers  and  retires  up  the  stage.) 

Barb.    And  these  for  Mr.  and  Mistress  Blennerhassett. 

Blen.  You  are  welcome,  Mr.  Messenger,  to  our  is- 
land. (Taking  letters .)  Go  in,  and  Scip  will  see  that  you 
are  cared  for.  (Blennerhasset  and  wife  open  letters.} 

Barb.  (Aside  as  she  enters  house.}  The  devil  did  not 
know  me  in  this  disguise.  I  '11  have  my  vengeance  yet ! 

Blen.     What  brings  the  mail  to  you,  my  love  ? 

Mrs.  Blen.  A  gossip's  letter  from  the  world  we  left 
behind.  The  one  friend  who  knows  of  our  retreat  writes 
that  Victor  fell  in  a  tavern  brawl  so  badly  wounded  that 
he  is  not  expected  to  survive.  He  may  be  dead  and  I  can 
be  your,  wife  indeed. 

Blen.     I  hope  so,  what  is  the  date  of  your  letter  ? 

Mrs.  Blen.  I  had  not  looked  at  that.  Why,  it  has 
been  some  eight  months  reaching  here.  I  may  be  free. 

Blen.     God  send  it  may  be  so.     Ill  news  flies  swiftly, 


Blennerhassett ' s  Island.  311 

while  good  news  lags  like  a  lazy  summer.  I  have  a  con- 
fidential letter  here  from  our  friend,  Governor  Morris,  who 
introduced  to  us  Colonel  Burr,  he  writes  (reads):  "  I  feel 
it  my  duty,  old  friend,  having  introduced  the  devil  to  your 
paradise,  to  warn  you  of  your  peril.  It  is  whispered  here 
that  he  is  in  some  conspiracy  against  the  government.  I 
do  not  believe  this ;  at  the  same  time  his  operations  in  the 
wild  West  are  mysterious,  so  suspicious,  indeed,  that  the 
government  has  sent  Captain  Wilkinson  with  a  force  to  in- 
quire into  his  movements,  and,  if  necessary,  arrest  him. 
Do  n't  get  yourself  involved  in  any  of  his  schemes,  what- 
ever they  may  be.  He  is  as  insinuating,  selfish,  and  un- 
scrupulous as  Satan.  Above  all,  keep  guard  when  petti- 
coats are  about — a  word  to  the  wise." 

Mrs.  Bkn.  No  need  of  such  a  warning  to  a  woman. 
My  better  instincts  read  the  man  aright  when  first  we  met. 
I  detest  him. 

Blen.     Hush — he  is  near. 

Burr.-  (Coming forward.  Aside.')  And  so  Tom  Jef- 
ferson sends  an  officer  and  guard  for  my  arrest.  He  will 
execute  such  order  at  his  peril.  Where  could  I  have  seen 
that  face  and  heard  that  voice.  They  haunt  me  like  a 
troubled  dream. 

Blen.  I  gather,  Colonel,  from  your  troubled  look  that 
you  have  grave  news. 

Burr.     Not  at  all.     Our  good  president  is  somewhat 


3J2  Blennerhassett ys  Island. 

anxious  over  my  expedition.  The  author  of  revolution 
himself,  he  is  jealous  of  a  like  right  in  others.  I  have 
given  you  my  confidence,  noble  friend,  and  here  are  the 
papers  unfolding  all  our  plans  and  hopes.  I  hope  they 
will  meet  your  approbation.  (Gives  papers  as  BARBARA 
steals  in  unobserved.  Enter  OLD  GET.) 

Old  Get.  By  the  holy  Moses,  we  've  got  him — we  Ve 
got  him ! 

Blen.     Got  who? 

Old  Get.     The  head  devil  himself. 

Burr.  My  excited  friend,  such  victory  is  worse  than 
defeat.  To  get  the  devil  is  to  gain  a  loss. 

Blen.     Will  you  tell  us  what  you  mean? 

Old  Get.  I  mean  the  boys  have  captured  Wolf,  the 
renegade — got  him  fast. 

Blen.  Was  there  much  loss  of  life?  Did  he  resist 
desperately? 

Old  Get.  Bless  your  soul,  resist !  He  first  took  the 
boys,  and  then  the  cuss  surrendered. 

Blen.  How  so?  Confound  it,  man;  will  you  stop 
jumping,  and  tell  us  coherently  what  you  mean  ? 

Old  Get.  Sartin  I  will — sartin.  The  boys  had  settled 
for  supper.  They  put  their  guns  agin  an  oak,  lit  a  fire, 
and  went  to  cookin',  when  all  of  a  suddint  Wolf,  the  cuss, 
stepped  in  betwixt  'em  and  their  guns  with  a  thunderin' 
big  pistol  in  each  hand,  and  told  'em  to  surrender.  Lord! 


Blennerhassett* s  Island.  313 

but  things  looked  ugly  for  us,  'cause  the  boys  thought  he 
had  a  hundred  redskins  at  his  back  ready  to  jump  an'  yell, 
and  so  they  sot  still  and  looked  like  geese  before  thunder. 

Blen.     And  then? 

Old  Get.  He  told  'em  jist  as  quiet  and  as  cool  as  the 
devil  that  he'd  surrender  if  they'd  agree  to  fetch  him 
here.  They  was  only  too  willin',  and  they  gave  their 
honor,  and  they 's  acrossin'  the  river  with  the  skunk  this 
minute.  There  they  are. 

Enter  MIKE  FINK  and  crowd  with  WOLF  bound. 

Fink.  Here  he  is — here 's  the  renegade  and  scalper ; 
got  him  sure. 

Crowd.     Hang  him !  hang  him — 

Mrs.  Blen.  Oh!  Harman,  don't — don't  let  them  harm 
him  here  before  my  very  eyes ! 

Blen.  The  man's  a  murderer — a  cruel  butcher  and 
deserves  death. 

Mrs.  Blen.  Oh!  no,  not  now — not  now — Oh,  please 
save  him !  I  can  not  bear  it — it  will  kill  me. 

Blen.     Hold  there.     He  must  have  a  trial  first. 

Fink.  Damn  a  trial — he  did  not  give  the  people  he 
killed  a  trial. 

Crowd.     Hang  him  !     Hang  him  ! 

Blen.     Stand  back  I  say ! 

Mrs.  Blen.     Oh,  Colonel  Burr,  help  us  save  him! 

Burr.      (Seizing  a  pistol  from  regulator^)      Here,  you 
27 


314  Blennerhassett"1  s  Island. 

men  of  my  command,  stand  back  {placing  himself  between 
WOLF  and  crowd}.     The  man  who  stirs  is  dead. 
CURTAIN. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE:  Same  as  in  first  act.  MIKE  FINK,  OLD  GET,  and 
others  discovered. 

Fink.     I  say,  fellows,  he 's  got  to  hang ! 

Old  Get.     Them 's  my  sentiments. 

Fink.  It 's  bad  enough  for  an  Injun  to  slaughter  and 
scalp,  but  when  it  comes  to  a  white  man  he  ought  to  be 
skinned  alive  and  hung  in  a  smoke  house. 

Old  Get.     Them  's  my  sentiments. 

Fink.  Why,  boys,  he 's  taught  the  redskins  how  to 
fight;  he's  a  gineral  among  the  devils,  and  shows  'em  how 
to  spread  in  an  ambush  and  swing  in  behind  and  attack 
and  retreat  as  good  as  Old  Wayne — damn  him ! 

Crowd.     Damn  him ! 

Old  Get.  Have  you  heard  the  news,  boys — ten  thous- 
and United  States  troops  landed  at  Marietta  last  night. 

Fink.     Oh,  get  out ! 

Old  Get.  Fact,  Fink.  Saw  'em  land;  Gineral  Wilkin- 
sin  is  in  command ;  he 's  a  seven-footer  if  an  inch — carries 
a  sword  that  takes  ten  men  to  buckle  on. 

Fink.     Get,  you  are  the  biggest  liar  unhanged. 


Blennerhas sett 's  Island.  315 

Old  Get.  Fact,  Fink.  Talk  of  officers  !  When  I  lived 
in  Gettisburg  an  officer  come  along  recruitin'.  I  tell  you 
what — he  was  a  bully  buster.  Why,  that  man  weighed — 

Fink.  Now,  Get,  hold  hard ;  take  a  turn  on  a  saplin' . 
You  've  got  a  little  character  left — do  n  t  throw  it  away  on 
a  few  tons. 

Old  Get.  Well,  he  weighed  nigh  onto  a  ton.  Fact, 
Fink. 

Fink.     Well,  we  '11  agree  on  that,  but  not  a  ton  more. 

Crowd.     No,  not  a  pound ! 

Old  Get.  He  was  a  mighty  active  man,  though,  for 
all  he  was  so  big.  Why,  one  day  the  powder  mill  near 
Gettisburg  took  fire.  The  Gineral  says,  says  he,  "  Old  man 
it  won't  do  to  let  the  town  be  destroyed — come  on."  We 
was  about  a  mile  off,  and  we  was  neck  and  neck,  the  Gin- 
eral a  little  ahead.  We  got  there  in  jist  no  time.  All  the 
men  had  run  away,  jist  skeered  to  death,  and  the  powder 
was  explodin'  like  hot  thunder.  It  was  so  deafenin'  you 
could  n't  hear  yourself  think.  But  we  went  in,  I  tell  you, 
and  tromped  out  forty  barrels  apiece  afore  we  got  the  thing 
under  control  and  saved  the  town. 

Fink.     Oh,  Get !  forty  barrels  ? 

Old  Get.     Fact,  Fink. 

Fink.  Come,  boys,  let 's  rig  a  purchase  to  hang  the 
renegrade.  (As  they  go  out  WILKINSON  and  BARBARA  enter. ) 

WiL     This  letter  from  the  secretary  of  war  tells  me 


316  Blennerhassett  's  Island. 

not  only  to  confide  in  but  advise  with  you,  boy.  I  must 
say  the  government  has  selected  a  very  youthful  adviser. 
Are  you  sure  this  credential  does  not  belong  to  some  older 
person  ?  You  will  pardon  my  doubts,  but  my  mission  is 
too  delicate  and  important  to  be  risked  by  a  blunder.  Are 
you  Enoch  Brand? 

Barb.     No,  Captain,  that  is  not  my  name. 

Wil.  I  thought  as  much.  Then,  how  came  you  by 
this  confidential  letter  ? 

Barb.     It  was  given  me  by  the  President. 

Wil.  This  is  a  strange  riddle  my  boy,  you  will  excuse 
a  blunt  soldier,  but  it  is  my  belief  that  you  are  lying.  You 
stole  this  paper. 

Barb.  It  is  necessary,  Captain,  to  accomplish  the  one 
task  we  both  are  commissioned  to  execute  that  we  should 
have  confidence  in  each  other. 

Wil.     You  have  certainly  a  manly  way  of  talking,  boy. 

Barb.  Captain,  I  throw  myself  upon  your  better 
judgment.  I  am  not  Enoch  Brand.  I  am  not  a  boy. 
My  name  is  Barbara  Dair,  and  Aaron  Burr,  the  man  I 
seek  to  punish,  is  my  destroyer. 

Wil.  Why,  this  is  amazing — and  the  government  com- 
missions you  to  aid  and  advise  me  ? 

Barb.  Even  so.  The  President  knows  that  my  com- 
mission is  from  God.  He  but  indorses  that.  I  follow  this 
man  as  retribution  tracks  the  steps  of  crime. 


Blennerhassett' s  Island.  317 

Wil.     He,  this  Colonel  Burr,  has  wronged  you  ? 

Barb.  Most  foully.  I  was  innocent  and  happy  when 
he  crossed  my  path,  and  when  he  had  won  my  heart  he 
cast  me  aside  as  he  would  a  blighted  flower.  The  flower 
retains  its  thorn  even  in  death. 

Wil.  I  feel  sorry  for  you,  girl;  sorry  for  your  loss, 
and  yet  more  sorry  for  the  task  you  have  assumed.  And 
how  do  you  propose  to  aid  me  ?  My  instructions  are  to 
arrest  Burr,  but  not  without  clear  proof  of  his  treason. 
This  throws  a  heavy  weight  of  responsibility  upon  me. 
The  man  is  a  devil,  cautious  and  cunning  as  he  is  bold. 

Barb.  I  believe  I  see  the  way.  Burr  seeks  to  gain  this 
Blcnnerhassett  to  his  cause.  He  needs  the  money,  for  the 
owner  of  this  home  is  rich,  and  he  loves  the  pretty  wife. 
He- confides  in  Blennerhassett;  has  given  him  in  writing  all 
his  plans — all,  I  believe,  that  implicate  the  men  associated 
with  him  in  his  treason.  Could  we  but  get  those  papers — 

Wil.  I  see — I  see.  What  sort  of  a  man  is  Blenner- 
hassett? 

Barb.     A  gentleman. 

Wil.  A  gentleman  ?  That  I  believe  makes  the  very 
worst  material  to  work  upon.  He  will  hold  that  confi- 
dence as  he  holds  his  honor,  and  his  honor  above  his  life. 

Barb.  His  honor,  Captain,  is  not  altogether  in  his 
keeping.  This  wife  he  dotes  upon  has  much  the  larger 
trust,  and  Burr  will  undermine  all  that. 


318  Blennerhassett' s  Island. 

Wil.  What !  Risk  his  all— character,  trust,  life  itself, 
for  a  pretty  woman  ? 

Barb.  It  is  his  one  weak  spot.  Were  the  crown  of 
England  within  his  grasp  he  'd  turn  aside  to  dally  with  a 
love.  Leave  him  to  me  until  I  hold  the  proofs.  There 
come  the  puppets  and  the  man  himself. 

Enter  BLENNERHASSETT,  MRS.  BLENNERHASSETT, 
and  BURR. 

Blen.  You  are  most  welcome  to  our  island  home, 
Captain!  Permit  me  to  present  my  wife;  Colonel  Burr, 
I  believe,  you  have  met  before. 

Burr.  And  glad,  sir,  to  take  your  hand  again.  Time, 
like  a  trusty  friend,  deals  kindly  by  you,  Captain. 

Wil.  I  thank  you,  Colonel.  It  does  seem  strange 
to  meet  so  famed  a  soldier  and  renowned  statesman  in 
such  a  wilderness  as  this. 

Burr.  You  must  not  call  a  garden,  guarded  by  such 
an  angel,  a  wilderness,  Captain. 

Wil.  (Aside.')  The  oily-tongued  devil!  And  I  am 
expected  to  out-scheme  and  arrest  him.  (Aloud.')  It 
seems  attractive  enough  to  make  you  linger  here.  I 
understood  your  immigration  scheme  is  quite  perfected. 

Burr.  We  need  a  few  more  frosts,  my  friend,  to 
insure  us  health. 

Blen.  Now,  Captain,  what  can  we  do  for  you  and 
your  troops  to  make  your  brief  stay  pleasant  ? 


Blennerhassetf  s  Island.  319 

Wil.  I  only  ask  a  camping  ground,  if  you  will  be  kind 
enough  to  designate  the  spot  that  will  least  disturb  your 
princely  home. 

Blen.     With  pleasure.     This  way. 
Exeunt  CAPTAIN  WILKINSON,  BLENNERHASSETT,  BURR, 
and  BARBARA.     Enter  guard. 

Guard.  The  renegade,  Wolf,  madam,  wants  to  speak 
with  you. 

Mrs .  Blen.  Wants  to  speak  with  me  ?  Well,  conduct 
him  here.  (Exit guard?) 

Mrs.  Blen.  Poor  doomed  man,  doubtless  he  seeks 
further  aid  from  me,  and  aid  I  can  not  give.  I  saved  him 
from  the  cruel  mob  only  to  have  him  die  by  a  drum-head 
court-martial. 

Enter  WOLF,  bound,  between  two  guards. 

Mrs.  Blen.     You  wish  to  speak  to  me  ? 

Wolf.  If  you  will  trust  me,  fair  lady,  and  bid  these 
watch  dogs  step  aside.  Never  fear,  I  pledge  my  word  of 
honor  as  a  gentleman  to  take  no  advantage  of  your 
kindness. 

Mrs.  Blen.  Leave  us  alone,  good  friends.  Be  at  ease, 
I  will  answer  for  his  security.  You  can  rest  the  while,  and 
Scipio  will  give  you  refreshments  in  the  kitchen.  (Exit 
guards.} 

Wolf.  These  soldiers  obey  you  better  than  did  the 
beastly  mob  of  boatmen  and  regulators.  (After  a  pause.} 


320  Bknnerhassett' s  Island. 

You  do  not  know  me  in  this  guise  and  place.  Have  these 
short  years  so  changed  my  face  that  it  has  grown  strange  ? 
I  thought  when  you  were  pleading  for  my  worthless  life 
you  recognized  the  victim. 

Mrs.  Blen.  I  ?  No,  I  did  not  know  you ;  nor  do  I  know 
you  now.  I  plead  for  you  in  peril  of  your  life  as  I  would 
have  plead  for  the  meanest  animal  threatened  with  a  cruel 

death. 

BARBARA  steals  in  listening. 

Wolf.  Can  it  be,  Clara,  that  my  very  voice  is  lost  to 
you? 

Mrs.  Blen.  Great  heavens,  Victor  Brady ! — you  alive 
and  here  !  (Staggers  back. ) 

Wolf.  Be  firm.  Be  quiet.  Time  is  brief  with  me. 
Lean  against  this  oak.  I  am  doomed  to  die  at  early  dawn 
to-morrow,  and  I  have  something  to  communicate  that  it 
is  well  for  you  to  hear.  Will  you  hear  ? 

Mrs.  Blen.     {Faintly.)     Go  on. 

Wolf.  When  I  recovered  from  my  wound,  got  in  a 
drunken  brawl,  I  followed  you  across  the  seas — tracked 
you  to  your  hiding,  with  hell  in  my  heart.  I  had  no 
thought  by  day  or  dream  at  night  but  vengeance  on  my 
enemy  who  stole  you  from  me. 

Mrs.  Blen.     But  Victor — 

Wolf.  I  know — I  know — You  would  say  I  was  a 
beast,  and  stole  your  child  away. 


Blennerhassett' s  Island.  321 

Mrs.  Blen.     My  child,  my  poor  Mary ! 

Wolf.  Hush,  hear  me,  't  is  of  that  I  'd  speak.  For 
months  I  have  haunted  this  river,  brooding  upon  my  re- 
venge, hoping  for  the  opportunity  to  kill  you  both,  and  I 
could  have  slain  you  both  ere  this ;  I  have  had  you  pass 
me  on  your  steed;  I  have  been  hid  in  the  wood  when 
your  lover  hunting  passed  within  range  of  my  good  rifle ; 
but  I  could  not  be  satisfied  unless  you  knew  the  hand 
that  dealt  the  fatal  blow.  This  stealthy  watching  gave  me 
among  my  Indian  friends  the  name  of  Wolf. 

Mrs.  Blen.     And  you  grew  to  be  cruel  as  the  savages  ? 

Wolf.  Speak  them  fair,  my  girl,  speak  them  fair ! 
These  simple  children  of  the  wood  are  gentlemen,  loyal 
and  true.  They  forget  no  favors  and  forgive  no  wrong. 
The  little  good  I  've  done  in  life  was  aiding  them  against 
these  cut-throats  and  thieves  called  settlers. 

Mrs.  Blen.  But  my  child,  my  child,  Victor!  Tell  me 
of  my  child. 

Wolf.  Yes,  'tis  she  I  would  restore  to  you.  Hear 
me ;  living  this  life  beneath  the  open  sky,  removed  from 
all  the  evils  of  my  early  life,  a  change  came  over  me  and 
my  sense  of  wrong  died  out.  I  surrendered  that  I  might 
face  you  both  and  have  an  end  of  it. 

Mrs.  Blen.  But  did  you  not  know  that  such  surrender 
would  be  death? 

Wolf.     What  matter — I  was  weary  of  life — 


322  Blennerhassetf  s  Island. 

Mrs.  Blen.     Our  child,  Victor — 

Wolf.  Since  you  saved  me  for  a  little  time  I  would 
prolong  the  respite  that  I  might  enable  you  to  again 
possess — 

Mrs.  Blen.  Oh !  Victor  tell  me !  I  will  traverse  the 
earth  on  foot  to  get  my  child  again — 

Wolf.  I  left  my  papers  in  the  keeping  of  my  Indian 
friends.  Without  them  your  search  would  be  useless. 
Could  I  escape — 

Mrs.  Blen.    (Unbinding  Wolf.)   Yes — Yes,  steal  through 
the  garden  to  the  water  edge.     There  you  will  find  a  boat, 
built   for  me.     Drop  down  the  river  under  cover  of  the 
willows  on  this  bank,  then  row  across. 
Enter  BARBARA. 

Barb.  Not  so — not  so.  The  soldiers  going  into  camp 
are  in  your  way.  They  can  not  fail  to  see  you;  pull 
boldly  for  the  further  shore,  it  is  your  only  hope. 

Wolf.     Thank  you,  my  lad.     (Exit.) 

Mrs.  Blen.     He  must  be  seen — he  can  not  escape ! 

Barb.  Never  fear;  the  idlers  are  gazing  at  the  soldiers 
going  into  camp.  All  the  boats  are  on  the  further  end  of 
the  island — ah !  I  see  him.  Brave  man,  he  rows  quietly 
along  with  no  show  of  hurry  in  his  efforts. 

Mrs.  Blen.     I  can  not  look  upon  him. 

Barb.  Every  second  sends  the  light  craft  further  on 
its  way.  (A  cry  is  heard.)  Hark !  He  is  recognized. 


Blcnnerhassct?  s  Island.  323 

(The  cries  increase.}  Ah,  now  he  pulls  for  life  !  (Shouts 
heard.}  They  are  firing  on  him  from  the  camp.  The 
shots  strike  the  water  all  about  him.  (More  shots.)  Ah  ! 
God,  he 's  down — No,  he 's  up  again !  He  pulls  as  if  hurt — 
He 's  beyond  range  !  He  gains  the  shore.  He  staggers 
slowly  up  the  bank.  He  is  gone. 

Mrs.  Blen.     (Falling  to  her  knees.}     Thank  God ! 

(The  long  roll  is  heard  as  the  curtain  descends.} 


ACT  III. 

SCENE:     Same  as  ist   act.     BLENNERHASSETT  and  BURR. 

Blen.  I  have  but  glanced  at  the  papers  you  gave  me 
to  read.  I  have  learned  enough,  however,  to  realize  the 
magnitude  of  what  you  propose — Mexico  and  Louisiana 
united  in  one  kingdom.  It  seems  to  me  the  force  you 
have  is  quite  inadequate  to  compass  so  great  a  scheme. 

Burr.  It  is  not  the  head  but  the  heart  that  makes  the 
effort  potent.  It  is  not  the  handful  of  common  men  upon 
a  raft  that  troubles  the  Government  at  Washington  and 
makes  the  country  tremble.  It  is  Aaron  Burr.  The  name 
that  fills  the  land  I  leave  with  vague  anxiety  fills  the  land 
I  seek  with  hope.  I  am  to  this  new  land  of  ours  what 
Napoleon  is  to  Europe. 

Blen.     Pardon  me,  Colonel,  while  I  admit  the  force  of 


324  Blenmrhassetf  s  Island. 

what  you  say,  yet  will  not  this 'proposition  of  a  kingdom 
in  this  day  of  republics  be  a  grave  obstacle  to  your 
success  ? 

Burr.  My  friend,  a  republic  which  means  the  equal- 
ity of  men  made  unequal  by  nature  is  a  dream  of  lunatics. 
It  is  called  self  government,  and  at  what  period  did  a  man 
govern  himself? 

Blen.     But  the  world  progresses,  Colonel. 

Burr.  Not  in  that  direction.  In  a  barbarous  age, 
when  a  man  conquered  his  enemy  he  killed  and  ate  him. 
After  a  time  he  progressed;  he  conquered  and  enslaved 
him.  Then  came  what  we  are  pleased  to  call  civilization, 
and  while  one  class  became  masters  under  the  feudal  sys- 
tem another  sunk  into  slaves.  The  few  fatten  in  idleness, 
while  the  many  labor  to  live  on  a  bare  subsistence.  Why, 
in  this  vaunted  republic,  my  patriotic  friend,  the  great 
leader — a  very  giant  among  pigmies,  this  French-Ameri- 
can, His  Excellency — while  preaching  the  equality  of  all 
men,  lives  on  unrequited  toil,  has  slaves  to  watch  his  face, 
to  do  untold  his  bidding  as  he  wakes  and  fan  his  lordly 
brow  when  lost  in  sleep. 

Blen.     But  these  are  negroes. 

Burr.  Yes,  they  are  only  negroes.  In  France  they 
are  only  peasants,  and  in  Prussia,  serfs.  Let  us  be  consis- 
tent in  this  age  of  reason.  If  George  Washington  could 
be  soothed  to  sleep  by  music  made  by  whipping  slaves,  let 


Blennerhassett 's  Island.  325 

us  not  blame  the  eastern  monarch  for  his  bath  of  human 
blood,  or  the  dainty  aristocrats  of  France,  whose  delicate 
gloves  are  tanned  skins  of  men. 

Blen.    You  think  these  slaves  should  be  made  citizens  ? 

Burr.  I  think,  to  be  consistent,  we  should  make  the 
masters  citizens.  We  can  not  have  all  men  born  equal 
where  one  can  be  born  to  a  thousand  slaves. 

Blen.     Or  a  thousand  acres  ? 

Burr.  We  make  a  distinction  between  property  in 
dead  matter  and  property  in  man.  Our  Virginia  philoso- 
pher, who  does  not  believe  in  God  and  does  believe  in 
Tom  Jefferson,  has  caught  from  France  the  choice  phrases 
that  he  tosses  in  our  eyes  as  a  showman  does  balls  and 
knives  to  vulgar  fooling.  We  have  gone  to  sea  in  a  bowl. 
We  are  bid  to  hope  for  a  political  impossibility.  Look 
about  you,  man !  Where  do  we  find  in  all  creation  this 
thing  called  self-government  ?  From  the  brutes  up  to  the 
great  Creator  might  is  right.  God  allows  of  no  republic. 
It  is  the  law  of  our  being  that  the  fool  may  do  for  the  wise 
man  what  the  wise  man  can  not  do  for  himself— govern 
him. 

Blen.     These  are  heterodox  opinions,  Colonel. 

Burr.  None  the  less  true  on  that  account.  This 
scheme  of  self-government  carries  in  itself  its  seeds  of 
destruction.  One  corner  is  slavery ;  the  other  the  corpor- 
ation. We  have  dethroned  the  well-born  to  give  place  to 


326  Blennerhassett*  s  Island. 

vulgar  wealth.  All  men  are  born  equal,  provided  they 
are  born  white;  and  there  shall  be  no  inequality  before 
the  law,  save  that  which  is  embodied  in  a  corporation. 

Blen.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Colonel ;  I  do  not  compre- 
hend this  that  you  call  a  corporation. 

Burr.  The  soulless  thing  created  by  law  that  may 
amass  wealth  and  live  forever.  It  is  a  cloud  no  bigger 
than  your  hand.  We  shall  not  die  before  that  cloud  shall 
cover  the  heavens  and  spread  desolation  over  the  earth. 
Before  it  this  thing  of  shreds  and  patches  called  a  consti- 
tution, with  its  nicely  adjusted  checks  and  balances,  will 
be  wrecked  like  a  boy's  kite  in  a  storm,  and  become  a 
thing  for  men  to  laugh  at.  It  is  all  in  vain,  my  friend. 
What  the  people  gain  through  violence  they  lose  through 
fraud,  and  that  with  their  own  consent.  The  iron  hand 
of  greed  has  a  velvet  glove  and  fondles  while  it  feels  for 
power. 

Blen.  Pardon  me  a  seeming  idle  curiosity — it  is  not 
idle.  I  am  tempted  to  take  part  in  this  daring  scheme. 
Before  I  do,  however,  I  seek  to  know  all  there  is  to  know 
on  what  you  found  your  hopes. 

Burr.  I  am  glad  to  know  this,  my  friend.  A  man  of 
your  ability  and  wealth  should  not  be  buried  in  this  wilder- 
ness. A  wide  and  noble  career  is  offered  you,  and  you 
will  find  on  looking  over  the  papers  I  entrusted  to  your 
honor  that  the  journals  of  Europe,  alarmed  by  the  trouble 


Blennerhassetf  s  Island.  327 

in  France  that  gets  countenance  from  our  Yankee  republic, 
favor  a  dismemberment  of  the  states  and  building  at  the 
South  a  monarchy  to  hold  in  check  the  wild  insanity  of 
these  republicans.  Now  I  must  take  my  leave  with  a  long 
ride  to  meet  some  friends  at  Marietta.  Au  revoir,  my  ex- 
cellent friend — when  we  again  meet,  may  we  meet  as 
allies.  (Exit.) 

Enter  MRS.  BLENNERHASSETT  in  riding  dress,  followed  by 
BARBARA. 

Blen.     Ah !     You  're  for  a  ride  I  see. 

Mrs.  Blen.  Yes;  Colonel  Burr  invites  me  to  be  his 
guide  a  short  distance  on  his  road  to  Marietta. 

Blen.  Why,  this  is  something  novel — why,  since  when 
have  you  become  so  intimate  ? 

Barb.     (Aside, .)     Jealous  is  he? 

Mrs.  Blen.  My  conduct  has  been  rude  and  I  repent 
me  of  it.  This  gentleman  is  our  guest,  and  as  such  I 
strive  to  look  upon  and  treat  him. 

Blen.  And  I  will  see  him  mounted  and  the  boat 
manned  to  row  you  over.  (Exit.) 

Mrs.  Blen.  (To  BARBARA.)  Well,  well,  what  have  you 
to  report  ? 

Barb.  We  found  the  boat  adrift  and  stained  with 
blood.  Beneath  the  seat  on  which  he  sat  and  rowed  for 
Me  there  was  quite  a  pool.  I  sent  back  the  man,  and  in 
this  light  boat  of  yours  I  rowed  to  where  the  stream  we 


328  Blennerhassetf  s  Island. 

told  him  of  emptied  in  the  river,  and  without  much  trouble 
found  the  sycamore,  but  no  papers,  and  indeed  no  trace 
of  any  human  being  having  been  there. 

Mrs.  Blen.  He  was  wounded,  and  may  be  dead,  and 
every  trace  of  my  poor  child  lost  forever!  Will  you  try 
once  more  ?  If  alive  he  will  keep  his  promise  though  he 
has  to  crawl.  Stay — I  will  write  a  note  that  you  may 
leave — will  you? 

Barb.  With  pleasure,  madam.  (Mrs.  BLENNERHAS- 
SETT  enters  house.}  Poor  woman,  born  weak  and  born  to 
suffer.  If  I  can  only  get  possession  of  those  papers  held 
by  her  husband,  one  of  earth's  devils  will  come  to  punish- 
ment that  is  death  and  disgrace  in  one.  But  how— in 
what  manner  to  go  about  it.  Let  me  think.  (  Walks  up 
the  stage.) 

Enter  MAHALA,  FINK,  and  OLD  GET. 

Fink.  Starboard  your  stern — starboard  your  stern; 
you  're  comin  bows  on  aboard  me. 

Mahala.  Well,  get  out  then,  I  don't  want  to  get 
aboard  I  can  tell  you. 

Old  Get.  Stand  back — stand  back,  and  give  the  old 
man  a  chance. 

Mahala.  Go  away  both  of  you.  I  never  see  two  such 
ridiculous  men — never  in  all  my  life. 

Old  Get.  Oh,  you  dog-wood  blossom,  you  wild  plum, 
come  to  my  arms. 


Blennerhassett ' s  Island.  329 

Fink.  Do  hear  his  old  bones  rattle  !  I  'm  your  feller. 
Take  a  turn  round  my  corpus  and  tie  to  me. 

Old  Get.  Oh !  Go  'way — wimmen  is  scarce  in  this 
neck  of  woods,  and  good  men — real  good  old  reliable  men 
— aint  plenty.  I  tell  you,  Mahaly,  when  I  was  in  Gettis- 
burg,  wimmen  lit  into  me  like  butterflies  on  a  sun- 
flower. 

Fink.     Oh,  get  out! 

Old  Get.     Fact,  Fink. 

Mahala.     I  wish  you'd  a'  stayed  there. 

Fink.  Hear  that,  you  old  chestnut.  I'm  the  winnin 
man  on  this  occasion. 

Mahala.  Oh  !  Get  out — I  would  n't  touch  you  with 
a  ten-foot  pole. 

Fink.  Young  female,  you  're  a  takin'  on  furrin  airs 
and  graces,  you  air.  The  next  trip  I  make  down  in  the 
Sally-Ann  I'll  fetch  a  load  of  lovely  females  from  Pitts- 
burgh, and  then  you  '11  sing  small,  you  will ! 

Mahala.  (Snapping  her  fingers.}  That  for  your  lovely 
females.  I  'd  like  to  see  the  girl  'd  take  you  for  company, 
nor  you,  you  old  bald-headed,  snaggle-toothed  scolly 
jumper !  (Exit?) 

Old  Get.  Whew!  What  a  scratch  cat.  I  tell  you, 
Fink,  this  scarcity  of  wimmin  is  a  spoilen  of  'em.  The 
feller's  aint  right  in  their  minds.  Why  a  gang  of  us  came 

across  an  old  sun  bonnet  in  the  woods,  and  we  gave  three 
28 


33°  Blennerhassett' s  Island, 

cheers  and  formed  a  ring  and  danced  and  squealed  'round 
like  mad. 

Fink.  I  feel  that  way  myself.  I  never  knowed  afore 
the  power  of  petticoats.  We  've  got  to  look  after  that 
trade;  as  Rout  Out  &  Co.  says  at  Pittsburgh,  fetch  the 
supply  up  to  the  demand.  Ef  I  do  n't  fetch  down  a  load 
of  gals  I'm  a  mink. 

Old  Get.  And  throw  in  a  few  likely  widders,  Fink, — 
widders  is  mighty  takin';  would  n't  mind  a  gross  of  'em 
myself.  Do  n't  forget  the  widders,  Fink. 

Fink.  I  '11  bear  in  mind,  old  snowflake.  But  what 's 
this  talk  about  the  regulators  going  for  us  here  because  of 
the  escape  of  Wolf? 

Old  Get.  There  is  such  talk,  Fink,  and  the  settlers 
are  mighty  stirred  up  about  it.  You  see  that  massacre  at 
Big  Sandy  aint  forgot  in  a  hurry,  and  they  do  say  that  the 
regulators  are  gettin'  a  force  ready  to  come  down  and  clear 
out  this  island. 

Fink.  Well,  I  can't  say  that  I  anger  up  at  their  bein' 
mad.  It  was  enough  to  make  a  man  snortin'  mad  to  see 
his  friends  and  neighbors  ambushed,  killed  and  scalped, 
but  what  the  devil  has  folks  here  got  to  do  with  it  ? 

Old  Get.  There's  some  curious  stories  goin'  about. 
It  is  said  that  the  Colonel's  woman  sent  the  guards  off 
to  drink,  and  Abe  Anker  is  ready  to  swear  he  saw  her 
going  on  over  the  renegade  and  untie  him. 


Blennerhassett ' s  Island.  331 

Fink.  Abe  Anker  aint  as  big  a  liar  as  you,  Get,  but 
he 's  close  where  you 're  steerin'  in  that  line.  I  would  n't 
believe  it  on  his  affidavy  'specially  ef  you  swore  to  it,  too. 

Old  Get.  This  is  a  free  country,  Fink,  and  every  man 
has  a  right  to  his  opinion.  Its  your  right  as  a  free  citizen 
to  think  what  you  please  about  my  veracity — I  aint  gain- 
sain'  that.  But  do  n't  be  a  fool,  Fink. 

Fink.  I  was  n't  branded  cast-steel  for  that,  so  do  n't 
feel  oneasy  touchin'  my  foolishness.  But  pole  on,  pole 
on,  partner. 

Old  Get.  Ef  she  did  n't  untie  the  renegade  how  did 
he  get  loose,  and  how  did  he  know  about  her  boat  and  its 
oars,  eh  ?  Answer  me  them  questions,  Mr.  Solomon. 

Fink.  Well,  I  must  say  there 's  snags  about  and  a  few 
eddies;  but  there  's  one  thing  I  can  say  to  them  regulators 
— they  'd  better  time  their  visit  here  after  our  Red  Run 
expedition  gets  off.  Ef  they  don't  they  run  on  a  few 
snags  that  are  tiptop  sawyers,  I  can  tell  you. 

Old  Get.  I  'm  with  you  there,  Fink ;  but,  its  long  be- 
tween drinks,  partner.  Let's  adjourn  to  the  broad  horn 
and  try  that  corn-juice. 

Fink.     Agreed.     (Exeunt.} 

Enter  MRS.  BLENNERHASSETT. 

Mrs.  Blen.  Now,  please  do  n't  fail  me,  boy ;  if  my — 
this  man  I  mean — were  to  die  without  giving  me  a  clue  I 


33 2  Blennerhassett ' s  Island. 

would  be  doomed  to  a  life  of  torture.      (In  taking  note 
BARBARA  drops  /'/.) 

Barb.     Trust  me,  madam. 

Mrs.  Blen.  I  do.  May  heaven  serve  you  as  you 
serve  a  wretched  mother !  (Exit.) 

Barb.  Poor  woman.  What  helpless  playthings  we 
are  in  the  hands  of  men,  and  how  we  pay  with  broken 
hearts  for  their  amusement.  There  is  one,  at  least,  I 
doom  to  death.  Those  papers — could  I  but  gain  that 
proof,  the  task  were  easy.  (Exit) 

Enter  BLENNERHASSETT. 

Blen.  A  strange  depression  weighs  me  down.  This 
hazy  sun  of  autumn,  with  the  gorgeous  drapery  of  the 
dying  woods  I  have  so  loved,  seems  to  me  the  sunlight  of 
a  cemetery.  I  can  not  understand  this  sudden  intimacy 
with  Colonel  Burr.  Last  night  my  more  than  wife  awoke 
me  by  her  weeping.  She  wearies  of  this  solitude.  Can 
it  be  this  fascinating  villian,  this  man  whose  oily  tongue 
and  polished  ways  win  hearts  in  spite  of  reason,  has  come 
between  us?  The  thought  is  madness,  and  yet  why  not? 
She  left  her  husband,  child,  and  home  for  me ;  why  may 
she  not  in  turn  follow  him  ?  (Picks  up  note  mechanically. ) 
This  were  punishment  I  could  not  bear — What  is  this  ? 
(reads}  "My  heart  is  full  of  agonized  suspense.  You 
have  aroused  a  love  I  thought  dead.  You  promise  to  re- 
turn my  child.  God  bless  you  for  the  hope,  and  heaven 


Bknmrhassett' s  Island.  333 

reward  you.  Such  deed  will  wipe  away  your  sins — yea, 
cleanse  your  hands  of  blood.  Only  grant  me  what  you 
promise  and  I  will  give  you  all  that  is  left  of  my  wretched 
life."  I  see  it  all!  This  devil  in  human  shape  I  have  ad- 
mitted to  my  house  and  home  has  won  her  through  her 
mother  love  and  seeks  to  have  me  embark  in  his  wild 
schemes  that  he  may  have  her  by  his  side. 
Enter  BARBARA. 

Barb.  (Aside.)  I  have  lost  the  note.  (Sees  BLEN- 
NERHASSETT.)  Ah!  sir,  you  seem  disturbed.  (BLENNER- 
HASSETT  stares  at  her.)  Are  you  ill  ? 

Blen.  Aye,  ill— ill— sick  at  heart !  But  what  is  that 
to  you;  go  from  me;  why  do  you  look  upon  me  so 
strangely?  Is  my  disease  written  upon  my  face — go,  I 
say !  Hold!  Perhaps  you  know.  In  cases  of  this  sort  it 
is  common  for  all  to  know  the  rot  before  the  sufferer  feels 
his  wrong.  Do  you  know  what  tortures  me  ? 

Barb.     I  believe  I  do. 

Blen.  Well,  answer — what  is  it?  Do  n't  stand  there 
with  that  look  of  pity  on  your  face.  Out  with  it,  boy,  or 
I  shall  choke  it  from  you !  (Seizing  her. ) 

Barb.  The  disease  from  which  you  suffer  is  known  to 
the  world  as  Aaron  Burr. 

Blen.  So  I  thought!  Known  is  it — known  to  the 
world — and  all  these  camp  followers  and  ruffians  have 
seen  what  I  have  not  even  suspected;  and  so  my  name 


334  Blennerhassetf  s  Island. 

and  trouble  are  tossed  about  camp-fires  by  vulgar  lips  for 
laughter  and  contempt,  or  worse  than  both,  their  pity. 

Barb.  There  is  no  need  thus  to  torture  yourself  by 
such  exaggeration.  But  it  does  seem'  strange  to  me  that  a 
man  wise  as  you  should  admit  to  your  home  a  man  against 
whom  every  door  is  closed,  and  upon  whose  Cain-marked 
brow  the  finger  of  public  scorn  is  fixed. 

Blen.     True — most  true. 

Barb.  What  is  there  sacred  that  he  respects,  what  law 
of  God  has  he  not  violated  ?  Brave  as  a  soldier,  brilliant 
as  a  statesman — so  fascinating  that  he  wins  by  looks  where 
eloquence  fails  other  men — his  treachery  has  undone  him ! 
He  is  doomed. 

Blen.  Yes,  yes;  I  fell  a  victim  to  his  wiles.  But  now, 
while  stealing  from  me  all  my  heart  holds  dear,  he  trusts 
his  honor  and  his  life  into  my  keeping.  See,  I  hold  here 
papers  that,  if  given  to  the  government,  would  doom  him 
to  a  felon's  death  for  treason — high  treason. 

Barb.  And  you  keep  faith  with  a  man  like  this? 
Give  me  the  papers;  this  officer  is  waiting  here  for  proof; 
with  these  in  hand  your  enemy,  the  country's  foe,  will  be 
carried  back  in  irons  to  die  upon  the  scaffold. 

Blen.  Take  them  my  boy.  -Such  vengeance  brings  no 
relief  to  me,  but  it  is  well  that  he  should  die. 

Barb.     (Aside.)      \  have  won.      (Seizing  the  papers. ) 


Blennerhassetf  s  Island.  335 

Rest  assured  sir,  more  than  one  broken  heart  will  rejoice 
over  this  man's  fall.  (Exit.) 

(BLENNERHASSETT  seats  himself  and  buries  his  face  in  his 
hands.  MRS.  BLENNERHASSETT  approaches  him  and  places 
her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. ) 

Mrs.  Bkn.  My  love,  I  have  a  hideous  secret  to  reveal 
to  you. 

Blen.  (  Without  looking  up.}  So  soon  returned  !  You 
should  have  continued  on  and  saved  the  telling  of  what  I 
know — I  know  too  well. 

Mrs.  Blen.  Colonel  Burr  was  met  at  the  landing  by  a 
messenger  with  news  that  brought  us  back.  I  have  re- 
solved to  confess  to  you  a  strange  experience  that  has 
come  to  us. 

Blen.  Save  yourself  the  shame  of  telling.  I  know  it 
all  without — (Starting  up.*)  I  was  slow  to  learn,  the  very 
last  to  learn  the  shame  the  entire  camp  and  country  bab- 
bles of. 

Mrs.  Blen.  Do  not  blame  me,  love.  I  sought  to  hide 
from  you  the  misery  of  this  event.  I  can  not  kill  a 
mother's  love ;  there  is  no  hour  of  the  weary  day  I  do  not 
see  her  little  form — look  in  her  gentle  face,  and  when  night 
comes  I  hear  in  sleep  the  patter  of  her  tiny  feet — the 
music  of  her  voicej  the  pressure  on  my  bosom  of  her 
gentle  touch,  and  I  awake  to  weep  in  utter  wretchedness. 
Oh !  Harman,  he  promises  to  restore  my  child — to  give 


33 6  Blennerhassett*  s  Island. 

her  to  these  loving  arms  I  stretch  in  vain  to  gather  vacancy 
that  holds  but  woe. 

Blen.  He  promises !  he  is  a  treacherous  villian — Why 
promises  are  cheap  !  He  sought  by  promises  such  as  these 
to  win  you  from  me.  Thank  God,  I  hold  the  scoundrel 
by  the  throat  and  a  shameful  death  I  promise  him. 

Mrs.  Blen.  You  do  mistake  most  strangely ;  he  never 
sought  to  win  my  love  nor  I  to  give  it  him. 

Blen.  Hold !  Add  not  to  crime  by  lies.  Is  that  your 
writing?  (Showing  note.} 

Mrs.  Blen.     (Faintly.}     Yes. 

Blen.  "You  pen  such  words  to  him — to  this  wretch 
whose  life  has  been  an  infamy— and  I  abandoned  home, 
friends,  fortune  and  a  future  to  bury  like  a  fool  my  love 
and  self  in  a  wilderness  for  such  a  thing  as  this ! 

Mrs.  Blen.  I  gave  you  all  I  had  to  give.  And  were 
I  less  a  mother  could  you  love  me  more  ? 

Blen.  And  this  love  was  to  be  bandied  about,  from 
one  to  another.  It  began  with  me  and  will  end  with  the 
common  herd.  Paugh !  It  makes  me  sick. 

Mrs.  Blen.  These  are  bitter  words.  Oh,  Harman, 
hear  me,  be  patient  with  me  ! 

Blen.  Patience  !  Great  Heavens,  and  would  you  have 
me  patient  with  my  own  dishonor — pander  to  my  own  dis- 
grace !  What  sort  of  woman  is  this  that  before  God  I  made 
my  wife — into  whose  keeping  I  have  placed  my  all  in  life  ! 


Blennerhassett' s  Island.  337 

Mrs.  Blen.  Alas,  you  will  not  listen.  Oh,  my  love— 
{placing  her  hand  upon  his  arm.) 

Blen.  {Throwing  her  off.}  Off,  you  strumpet !  How 
dare  you  touch  me  with  your  polluted  hand !  Go  join 
your  new  found  love;  he  waits  you  now.  Go — go  to 
him,  and  by  the  great  Creator  I  will  put  the  rope  around 
his  worthless  neck  and  you  shall  see  him  hanged. 

{She  exits  slowly,  shrinking  from  htm;  he  rushes  back, 
sinks  into  a  seat  and  buries  his  face  in  his  hands.  Enter 
BARBARA.) 

Barb.  This  officer  when  wanted  most  is  absent  from 
his  post.  I  have  left  orders  at  his  camp  for  a  file  of  men 
to  arrest  this  traitor. 

Blen.  {Rising  suddenly.)  I  find  no  comfort  here.  He 
shall  die  by  my  own  hand. 

Barb.  Better  leave  that  to  the  hangman.  The  rope 
is  woven  and  the  scaffold  built  for  the  traitor  Burr.  Leave 
the  law  he  has  offended  to  do  your  work. 

Blen.  Too  slow,  too  slow  and  all  uncertain.  I'll  arm  my- 
self and  shoot  him  where  he  stands.  I  '11  send  his  treacher- 
ous soul  to  hell  before  his  faction  shall  have  time  to  rescue. 

Barb.     But  sir — 

Blen.  Out  of  my  way  you  spy!  (Throunng  BARBARA 
aside  and  rushing  into  the  house.) 

Barb.     The  man  is  crazed.    Well,  be  it  so ;  my  enemy 

is  punished  either  way. 
29 


33&  Blennerhassett*  s  Island. 

Enter  BURR. 

Burr.  Barbara  (she  starts),  you  do  this  masquerading 
remarkably  well. 

Barb.     You  know  me,  then ! 

Burr.  My  heart  were  dead  indeed  did  I  not  see 
you  through  this  thin  disguise.  You  may  stain  the  snowy 
skin  and  hide  the  roses,  cut  off  with  cruel  shears  your 
silken  locks,  put  on  a  boy's  attire,  yet  leave  enough  for 
me  to  know  the  sweetest  woman  heaven  ever  fashioned  to 
fascinate  a  man. 

Barb.  Enough  of  that!  I  have  learned  to  value 
these  soft  speeches  at  their  real  value. 

Burr.  And  did  you  suppose,  my  girl,  that  you  could 
change  the  winning  sweetness  of  that  voice,  your  grace  of 
motion  and  those  sparkling  eyes  because  this  vulgar  dema- 
gogue— this  French  philosopher,  Tom  Jefferson,  bids  you 
try? 

Barb.  I  have  enough  to  suit  my  purpose.  See  (show- 
ing package  of  papers),  I  hold  your  life,  you  traitor  to  God, 
your  government  and  me.  I  put  the  rope  around  your 
treacherous  neck  and  send  you  swinging  down  to  infamy. 

Burr.  Are  those  my  love  letters  that  you  brandish  so 
triumphantly  ? 

Barb.  No!  I  burned  the  worthless  things  when  I 
ground  your  worthless  love  beneath  my  feet. 


Blennerhassett  's  Island.  339 

Burr.  What,  then,  are  those  very  official-looking  doc- 
uments ? 

Barb.  The  papers  you  entrusted  to  your  host,  the 
wealthy  owner  of  this  town  and  isle ;  all  your  traitorous 
plans,  your  secret  correspondence  with  despots  abroad 
who  seek,  through  you,  to  break  the  Union  and  destroy 
the  government. 

Burr.  And  is  an  Irishman's  honor  then  so  frail  a  thing 
as  woman's  love  ?  Well,  give  me  my  property.  (Seizing 
her  arm). 

Barb.  Not  so,  my  love.  You  are  desperate  I  see. 
But  one  cry  from  me,  and  the  guard  will  be  upon  you, 
and  you  arrested  with  all  the  proof  upon  your  person. 

Burr.     (Releasing  her.)     But  you  will  not  cry. 

Barb.     Unless  you  force  me. 

Burr.     And  you  will  restore  my  property. 

Barb.  Not  so  long  as  I  have  eating  at  my  heart  the 
wrong  you  did  me. 

Burr.  I  accept  the  terms.  What  is  the  wrong  that 
thus  has  changed  your  trusting  love  to  hate  ? 

Barb.  Must  I  repeat  what  you  have  known  so  well  ? 
Did  you  not  woo  and  win  me  from  my  quiet  humble  home, 
from  innocence  and  peace  ? 

Burr.  Most  true.  It  is  the  sweetest  memory  of  my 
life  !  Through  all  my  troubled  years  that  joy  rides  on  like 
some  bright  star  above  the  clouds  of  night. 


34O  Blennerhassett  }s  Island. 

Barb.  And  then  to  cast  me  from  you  like  a  worthless 
thing  to  die  of  my  own  despair ! 

Burr.  That  is  a  lie.  Pardon  my  rough  words,  but  I 
am  the  one  wronged,  the  one  to  complain. 

Barb.  You?  You?  Come  now,  this  is  audacity  with- 
out parallel.  What  a  fool  you  think  me  to  treat  me  thus ! 

Burr.  Your  conduct  certainly  warrants  such  belief. 
Listen,  Barbara.  When  first  we  met  you  were  but  a  school 
girl,  and  I  a  man  who  had  knocked  about  the  world  until 
wearied  with  its  dreary  sameness.  I  saw  you  to  love  as  I 
never  thought  to  love  again.  It  was  not  only  your  rare 
beauty  but  your  quaint  originality  and  force  of  character 
that  made  you,  not  a  man's  plaything,  but  his  equal  to 
soothe,  comfort,  and  sustain. 

Barb.     And  you  wearied  of  all  these  charms  so  soon ! 

Burr.  You  provoke  me.  This  weakness  is  unworthy 
of  you,  my  love.  You  measure  my  love  with  a  pack 
thread.  After  that  fatal  duel  in  which  I  killed  mine 
enemy  and  the  world  killed  me,  I  turned  to  you  as  my 
only  solace,  my  only  hope. 

Barb.  It  is  such  a  pity  you  kept  all  this  hid  in  your 
own  heart,  not  even  deigning  to  answer  my  poor  letters. 

Burr.  I  never  received  them.  I  have  been  sur- 
rounded a  hundred  deep  by  spies,  to  which  you,  my  love, 
have  added  your  sweet  self  to  work  my  ruin.  My  letters 
were  intercepted  and  destroyed. 


Bknnerhassett  's  Island.  341 

Barb.     Ah !     If  I  could  believe  all  this. 

Burr.  Your  inner  heart  believes  it.  Your  better  in- 
stincts guide  you  to  the  truth.  Why,  Barbara,  do  you 
know  why  I  shot  that  man  with  the  sunlight  blazing  on  his 
face? 

Barb.  For  a  political  difference  that  he  made  per- 
sonal. 

Burr.  Not  at  all.  'T  is  true,  the  world  puts  me  at 
fault,  finding  no  cause  for  my  deadly  malice.  It  was  be- 
cause he  coupled  your  dear  name  with  mine  for  scorn  and 
laughter  among  his  drunken  comrades. 

Barb.     Can  this  be  true  ? 

Burr.  True!  I  would  it  were  not  true.  Before  I 
killed  that  man  I  had  the  world  before  me;  a  past  that 
made  me  loved,  and  troops  of  friends  to  insure  me  a 
brilliant  future.  After  the  howling  mob  of  Puritans, 
headed  by  this  demagogue,  whose  cunning  passes  for 
genius,  succeeded  in  closing  against  me  my  field  of  old 
success  and  drove  me  to  try  a  new,  I  accepted  the 
tempting  offers  of  monarchs  abroad  to  build  an  empire  on 
a  portion  of  this  frail  republic.  And  do  you  know,  Bar- 
bara, the  hope  that  held  me  to  this  desperate  work — the 
one  bright  star  that  shone  along  my  troubled  sea,  my  guide 
to  empire  ? 

Barb.     How  can  I  know,  not  knowing  you? 

Burr.     So  it  seems.     Well,  I  put  my  life,  my  name, 


342  Blenncrhassetf  s  Island. 

my  fortune  on  the  hazard  of  this  scheme,  not  only  that  I 
might  fulfill  my  destiny  but  sweeten  it  with  your  com- 
panionship ;  I  would  place  a  crown  upon  that  lovely  head 
and  have  your  love  to  live  upon  and  your  rare  intellect  to 
aid  me  in  my  public  cares  and  lift  a  burden  from  my 
dreary  life. 

Barb.  Ah  me,  I  ought  not  to  listen, — I  know — I 
know  your  words  are  false.  I  have  that  within  that  warns 
me  of  your  treachery,  and  yet  I  must  submit !  I  love  you 
still.  There,  take  the  proofs  and  count  me  out,  too  small 
a  thing  for  you  to  keep  me  even  in  your  memory. 

Burr.  No,  keep  the  papers,  Barbara.  They  are  safer 
in  your  hands  than  mine.  And  stay  with  me  for  I  need 
your  clear  brain  as  much  as  I  need  your  love.  Hold !  you 
can  do  me  a  service,  a  great  service.  His  Excellency  has 
ordered  my  arrest.  He  proclaims  me  traitor  and  calls  on 
all  good  citizens  to  give  no  aid  to  my  endeavors.  Give 
me  those  papers;  take  these,  carry  them  to  the  President 
and  say  you  risked  your  life  in  getting  them.  And  if  His 
Excellency  can  spare  time  from  the  embraces  of  his  sad- 
dle-tinted love  he  will  read  therein  that  I  only  mean  to 
settle  lands  I  purchased  in  Louisiana,  and  so  be  put  at 
fault.  I  need  time;  this  will  fetch  delay. 

Barb.  Be  assured  I  will — and  Oh !  my  love,  let  this 
one  service  plead  in  my  behalf ! 

Burr.     No  need  of  pleading,  dearest.     You  hold  my 


Blennerhassett  's  Island.  343 

future,  my  heart  and  hope  within  the  hollow  of  your  little 
hand.     Soon  return. 

Barb.     Where  shall  I  find  you  ? 

Burr.  In  Mexico,  my  love.  The  halls  of  Montezuma 
shall  know  a  king  once  more.  ' Au  revoiri\\\  then.  {Exit 
Barbara.)  Go  your  ways,  you  little  fool!  By  the  Lord, 
though,  she  came  near  to  proving  my  ruin.  Here  comes 
this  padded  chicken  cock  with  a  nation's  care  upon  his 
military  front  and  a  file  of  men  behind. 

Enter  CAPTAIN  WILKINSON  and  troops  followed  by  FINK, 
OLD  GET  and  others. 

Sergeant.     Halt ! 

Captain.  Colonel  Burr,  it  is  my  painful  duty  to  arrest 
you. 

Burr.     By  what  authority,  sir? 

Captain.    By  that  of  the  President  and  Secretary  of  War. 

Burr.  Pardon  me,  Captain;  I  must  have  a  warrant 
from  court  of  proper  jurisdiction.  There  has  been  no 
proclamation  establishing  martial  law. 

Captain.    I  take  the  responsibility.    Seize  him,  Sergeant. 

Sergeant.  Take  this  man  in  custody.  (Soldiers  do  not 
move.)  Do  you  hear  me — seize  this  man! 

First  Soldier.  We  wont  obey;  we  go  with  Burr. — 
(Cries  of  "Burr"— "Burr"— the  crowd  cheers.} 

Captain.     Why  this  is  mutiny ! 

Burr.     It  certainly  resembles  something  of  the  sort. 


344  Blennerhassett  's  Island. 

Captain.     Doubtless  of  your  cunning. 

Burr.  Captain,  give  me  your  sword — do  n't  hesitate, 
it  is  your  only  safety.  (Captain  gives  sword.}  Comrades,  I 
am  Aaron  Burr,  a  soldier  late  of  the  Federal  army.  I 
thank  you  for  the  honesty  that  makes  you  refuse  to  execute 
an  illegal  order,  and  I  thank  you  for  the  impulse  that  bids 
you  seek  to  follow  my  fortunes;  but,  comrades,  in  the 
hazardous  expedition  I  have  on  hand  I  need  men,  not 
deserters.  Were  I  to  accept  your  offer  I  would  justify  the 
government  in  arresting  us.  You  are  gallant  soldiers  en- 
listed on  your  honor  and  must  return  to  duty.  Fall  in. 
By  the  right  flank,  forward  march !  Sergeant,  march  them 
to  camp.  Captain,  having  restored  to  you  your  company, 
I  have  the  honor  to  restore  to  you  your  sword. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE:     Same  as  in  former  acts.      FINK  and  MAHALA. 

Mahala.     What 's  up,  Mike  ? 

Mike.     My  back 's  up  for  one  thing. 

Mahala.  Like  a  torn  cat.  Back  rounded,  claws  and 
teeth  out,  and  tail  bigger  nor  its  head.  What  riles  you, 
Fink? 

Fink.  Those  damned  fool  regulators.  They  hadn't 
the  pluck  to  hunt  down  and  capture  the  devil,  Wolf;  but 


Bknnerhassett  ys  Island.  345 

now  that  he  is  gone  they  are  ragin'  like  catamounts  and 
are  gettin'  a  force  to  clean  us  out,  they  say,  because  the 
lady  let  him  escape.  I  say  what 's  become  of  the  lady  ? 

Mahala.  Well,  Fink,  there  you  've  got  me.  She  dis- 
appeared all  of  a  suddint,  no  one  knows  where,  and  the 
boss  has  been  goin'  on  like  mad.  He  walked  and  walked 
his  room  all  last  night,  muttering  to  himself  like  one 
possessed. 

Fink.  The  troops  are  gettin'  off,  bound  for  New 
Orleans.  I  wished  the  roosters 'd  stay  a  little  longer. 

Mahala.     Why,  I  thought  you  wanted  'em  gone. 

Fink.  Yes,  when  they  was  talkin'  of  'restin'  our 
Colonel  Burr.  But  that's  over  now.  The  Captain  give 
it  up  like  a  sensible  fellow — and  then  I  did  n't  like  the  way 
they  had  of  walkin'  round  you  like  crows  round  a  sick 
lamb.  But  now  that  the  regulators  are  a'  gettin'  up  mis- 
chief, I  would  n't  mind  havin'  the  roosters  take  a  hand  in 
the  scrimmage. 

Mahala.  The  regulators  will  be  down  on  us  the 
moment  the  soldiers  go. 

Fink.  Should  n't  wonder — cuss  'em.  I  say,  Mahala, 
my  may  apple,  my  dog-wood  blossom,  when  'er  you  and  me 
goin'  to  tie  to — eh  ? 

Mahala.  When  you  give  up  boatin'  and  settle  down  to 
an  honest  life. 

Fink.     Now,  puss,  do  n't  say  that.     I  tell  you,  my  red- 


346  Blennerhassett' s  Island. 

bird  of  the  wilderness,  there 's   more   hard   dollars   in  a 
broad  horn  than  in  forty  quarter  sections. 

Mahala.  Yes,  and  a  sweetheart  in  every  town  you  tie 
up  at.  No,  Mr.  Fink,  I  do  n't  want  part  of  a  husband,  I 
want  all  or  none. 

Fink.  Well,  you  've  got  me  fore  and  aft — I  am  all 
your  'n ;  let  me  grapple. 

Enter  OLD  GET. 

Old  Get.  Throw  off  thar— throw  off,  I  'm  a  comin' ! 
{Pushing  in  between  them.}  Give  the  old  man  a  chance. 

Mahala.  Go  away,  you  scare-crow,  you  string-haltered, 
spavined  old  creeter' ! 

Old  Get.  Oh !  You,  hollyhock  of  the  garden  patch — 
Jehosiphat,  aint  she  handsome !  Amputate  my  off  limb, 
I  wants  to  hug  ye  'r. 

Fink.  Pole  off,  pole  off  thar !  That  aint  a  saplin'  for 
you  to  tie  to.  I  've  secured  that  cargo. 

Old  Get.  Do  n't  ye  be  deluded,  young  gal,  by  his  in- 
sinuatin'  ways.  He 's  got  a  wife  and  family  this  minute 
jist  a  weepin'  for  him,  the  ornery  cuss ! 

Fink.  See  here,  old  man,  keep  your  lies  for  your 
own  use.  You  're  breedin'  a  protuberance  on  that  nose  of 
your 'n. 

Old  Get.  Come  on — come  on,  young  Arabian  !  Hail 
Columby !  Who 's  afeard  ?  As  for  this  little  gal,  I  warn 
her  agin  boatmen.  (Sings.} 


Blennerhassett 's  Island.  347 

The  boatman  come,  he  blow  his  hawn, 
Look  out  old  man,  yer  shote  am  gone. 

(Chorus  all.) 

Oh!  ho!  boatman  row, 
We  're  floatin'  on  the  waters  of  the  O-hi-o. 

Pink.     Where  have  you  bin,  anyhow? 

Old  Get.  A  bar  huntin',  and  I  tell  you  I  made  a  mity 
narrow  escape  with  my  life. 

Pink.  Put  your  fascinatin'  eye  on  him,  May.  Here 
comes  a  lie. 

Old  Get.  Well,  ye  see  I  'd  been  explorin'  the  woods 
with  one  eye  out  fur  Indians  and  tother  out  for  barsr  and 
had  n't  seen  either,  when  I  leaned  up  agin  a  big  oak  to 
rest,  and  while  I  was  a  restin'  I  heard  a  scratchin'  and 
whinin'  noise  inside.  Them's  coons,  possums,  or  young 
bars,  says  I.  I  sot  down  my  rifle,  husked  my  wamus,  and 
went  up  that  thar  tree  like  a  squirrel.  About  twenty  feet 
up  I  found  the  trunk  broke  off  and  the  tree  holler. 
Without  thinkin'  what  I  was  doing  I  jist  slipped  down,  and 
way  at  the  butt  I  found  them  little  bars.  I  had  them  cubs 
in  no  time  and  slung  'em  over  my  shoulder,  and  concluded 
to  climb  back,  when,  bless  your  soul,  I  found  I  could  n't. 
The  inside  wus  soft  and  slippy.  Every  foot  I  climbed  up 
I  fell  back  two.  I  knowed  I  could  eat  them  little  bars 
and  I  could  drink  all  the  wiskey  in  my  flask,  and  then 
old  Get  could  jest  peg  out. 


343  Blennerhassetf  s  Island. 

Fink.     Did  you  repent  of  all  the  lies  you  've  told  ? 

Mahala.     And  all  the  chicken  you  stole? 

Old  Get.  Well,  for  a  real  truth  tellin',  honest  Christian 
man,  I  wasn't  so  much  alarmed  about  the  hereafter  as  the 
here.  But  I  jist  felt  in  my  bones  that  the  Lord  was  n't 
goin'  to  leave  me  to  perish,  and  sure  enough  at  that  minit 
I  heard  a  noise  of  growlin'  and  scratchin'  on  the  outside 
and  I  knew  the  old  she  bar  was  a  comin'.  Then,  Oh, 
Lord !  says  I,  it  is  goin'  to  be  a  bar  fight  of  magnitude, 
and  I  drawed  my  knife.  Then  the  hole  above  was 
darkened  and  down  she  comes  rump  foremost.  An  idea 
struck  me.  When  she  got  in  reach  I  jist  seized  her  by  the 
tail  and  stuck  my  knife  in  her  hind  quarters,  and  the  way 
that  bar  scratched,  growled  and  kicked  me  out  of  that  hole 
was  a  caution.  I  caught  on  the  rim  as  she  went  over  the 
top  and  I  gave  a  yell  as  she  tumbled  and  went  a  canterin1 
into  the  brush  a  twistin'  her  old  rump  as  if  she  felt  ridicalus. 

Fink.     Oh,  get  out ! 

Old  Get.     Fact,  Fink. 

Fink.  You  'r  a  failin',  old  man;  I  heerd  that  bar  story 
when  I  wus  knee  high  to  a  duck  on  the  Monongahela. 

Old  Get.  Young  man,  ef  you  begin  a  lyin'  that  ar  way, 
the  devil  '11  catch  you  afore  you  are  gray.  Let  the  choir 
sing. 

Mahala.  Well,  I  've  got  my  work  to  do  and  can't  stay 
here  a  hearin'  you  fellows  swap  lies. 


Bltnnerhasself1  s  Island.  349 

Fink.     Farewell,  my  dog-wood  blossom. 

Old  Get.    Goodby,  little  hollyhock.     (Exit  MAHALA.) 
Enter  COLONEL  BURR. 

Burr.  Fink,  you  must  select  about  ten  trusty  men  to 
cross  the  river  yonder  and  follow  a  trail  you  find  up  the 
hollow,  till  you  reach  a  camp,  where  you  '11  find  a  wounded 
man  and  a  woman;  surround  and  capture  without  kill- 
ing and  fetch  them  here.  Mind,  you  are  to  hurt  no  one. 
Make  a  litter  and  bring  in  the  wounded  man. 

Fink.  All  right,  Colonel,  we  '11  be  on  the  trail  in  half 
an  hour.  (Exeunt  FINK  and  OLD  GET.) 

Burr.  Now  for  a  settlement  with  this  mad  fool  who 
betrayed  my  trust.  (Enter  from  the  house  BLENNERHASSETT 
with  two  dueling  pistols  in  his  hand.)  He  comes,  pale  and 
insane  with  wrath. 

Blen.  Aaron  Burr,  I  thought  to  shoot  you  on  sight, 
with  no  more  warning  of  my  deadly  intent  than  you  gave 
me  of  your  treachery.  But  my  own  life  is  not  of  so  much 
value  to  me  that  I  care  to  save  it,  and  if  in  my  seeking 
your  life  you  take  mine,  it  will  be  peace  to  me  and  a  fit- 
ting end  to  your  hellish  conduct. 

Burr.  I  never  refuse  a  satisfaction  of  the  sort  you  ask, 
whether  the  demand  is  well  founded  or  not.  Before  we 
proceed  to  that  honor  I  wish  to  say  a  word. 

Blen.  I  warn  you,  Aaron  Burr,  that  my  patience  is 
exhausted.  There  is  naught  that  you  can  say  to  change 


350  Blennerhassett*  s  Island. 

my  purpose,  and  your  attempt  will  only  drive  me  mad. 
Take  your  choice.  (Off ering  pistols  ?) 

Burr.  Excuse  me.  I  am  well  aware  that  a  man  who 
could  so  betray  my  confidence  is  quite  capable  of  assassin- 
ation. It  is  I  who  should  demand  satisfaction. 

Blen.  Treachery  for  treachery.  What  law  of  honor 
bound  me  to  one  who  stole  into  my  household  to  rob  it  of 
peace  and  honor  ?  Take  your  choice,  sir. 

Burr.  The  word  honor,  my  friend,  had  better  be 
dropped  between  us.  All  the  honor  sheltered  by  your 
roof  is  scarcely  worth  our  breath. 

Blen.  What  do  you  mean !  What  do  you  mean,  you 
scoundrel  ? 

Burr.  I  mean  that  a  man  who  makes  his  roof  the 
shelter  for  his  neighbor's  wife  leaves  honor  at  the  thresh- 
hold. 

Blen.  She  was  my  wife  to  you  as  she  was  before  God. 
This,  then,  is  your  excuse — this  is  to  palliate  your  crime  ? 
God  give  me  patience !  I  shall  throttle  him — tear  his 
lying  tongue  from  his  throat.  Aaron  Burr,  will  you  do  as 
Ibid? 

Burr.  Certainly;  but  I  will  say  that  I  have  no  crime 
to  palliate. 

Blen.  You  did  not  steal  into  my  house  as  a  friend  and 
win  that  woman  from  me  as  a  devil  ? 

Burr.     Certainly  not. 


Blennerhassett' s  Island.  351 

Blen.     You  have  not  hid  her  in  your  camp  ? 

Burr.     Certainly  not. 

Blen.  You  lie — you  lie!  I  speak  of  what  I  know. 
Will  you  take  your  weapon  and  your  place,  or  shall  I 
shoot  you  like  a  dog  ? 

Burr.  Be  patient,  Harman  Blennerhassett.  You  shall 
have  all  that  you  demand  and  probably  more  than  you 
expect.  I  do  not  skrink  from  putting  one  more  fool  out 
of  the  world. 

Blen.     You  think  to  kill  me  ? 

Burr.  Most  assuredly.  In  sixty  seconds  by  my  watch 
(taking  it  out}  I  will  end  this  controversy  between  us  for- 
ever. Now,  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  before  you  die  that  you 
merit  your  doom.  I  am  the  man  aggrieved.  I  trusted  my 
honor,  my  life,  my  all  to  your  keeping  as  a  gentleman, 
and  you  repaid  that  trust  by  betraying  me  to  mine 
enemies. 

Blen.  Hold  trust  with  a  scoundrel  who  treacherously 
took  advantage  of  my  hospitality  to  do  me  a  most  foul 
wrong  ? 

Burr.  It  was  your  duty  as  a  gentleman  to  call  me  to 
account.  After  you  were  certain  of  your  facts  you  could 
have  punished  me  as  your  vengeance  dictated.  Time  is 
up,  Mr.  Blennerhassett.  Give  me  either  weapon.  I 
suppose  both  are  loaded.  Now,  take  your  stand  by  yon- 
der bush.  That  will  give  us  the  proper  distance. 


352  Blennerhassett' s  Island. 

Bkn.  I  want  no  such  space — I  want  it  arm's  length, 
face  to  face,  and  muzzle  at  breast. 

Burr.  Mr.  Blennerhassett,  I  am  a  gentleman  and  not 
an  assassin.  Either  we  fight  like  men,  or  you  may  carry 
out  your  first  intent  and  shoot  me  where  I  stand. 

Blen.  Fight  me  here.  Who  is  to  measure  distance  ? 
Give  the  word.  All  this  is  a  mockery  under  which  you 
hope  to  escape  to  your  love. 

Burr.  Enough,  sir;  you  are  wasting  breath  in  talk 
that  lately  you  protested.  Take  your  place,  sir,  or  shoot 
me.  I  want  this  ended. 

Blen.     And  I.     (Starting.) 

Burr.  One  word — fire  when  you  reach  your  place  as 
it  suits  you,  as  I  count  three.  But  mind,  the  one  who 
misses  forfeits  his  life,  and  the  winner  has  the  right  to 
shorten  distance  till  his  aim  is  death. 

Blen.     I  understand.     (Takes  his  place.) 

Burr.  One,  two,  three.  (BLENNERHASSETT  fires.) 
And  now,  before  I  end  this  wretched  business,  will  you 
please  explain  why  you  charge  me  with  seducing  this 
woman  from  you? 

Blen.     Her  own  writing — read.     (Gives  note.) 

Burr.     (Reads.)     There  is  no  address. 

Blen.     None  was  needed. 

Burr.     Yes,  for  this  was  not  addressed  to  me. 

Blen.     Who  else? 


Blennerhassett' s  Island.  353 

Burr.     Wolf,  the  renegade. 

Blen.     Wolf,  the  renegade ! 

Burr.  None  other.  Learn,  sir,  what  you  might 
have  known  had  you  retained  your  senses.  The  beast 
whose  wife  you  stole  followed  you  here  to  murder  you 
both.  For  some  unknown  reason  he  surrendered  himself, 
had  his  life  spared  by  your  wife,  and  in  return  promised 
to  restore  her  their  child.  On  this  promise  she  favored 
his  escape.  On  this  account  she  attempted  a  correspond- 
ence, for  the  man  while  escaping  was  terribly  wounded — 

Blen.     Great  heavens,  can  this  be  true? 

Burr.  This  letter  found  where  she  embarked  last 
night  may  tell  you  more.  ( Takes  from  his  pocket  a  Utter.} 

Blen.  (Opens  and  reads.}  "Before  I  cross  this  river 
to  die  in  the  wilderness  beyond — for  you  have  driven  me 
into  these  wilds  with  no  place  wherein  to  find  a  shelter  or 
a  friend — I  beg  of  you,  as  my  last  prayer,  to  take  up  the 
search  I  shall  have  to  abandon  and  find  my  poor  lost  little 
one.  It  was  from  my  great  love  of  her  that  I  listened  to 
Victor  and  aided  him  to  escape.  I  had  no  thought,  Oh, 
my  love,  that  this  would  have  so  offended  you,  and  yet  I 
feared  to  tell  you.  I  can  say  no  more.  Oh!  my  love, 
my  love,  I  gave  up  home,  heaven,  and  my  own  child  for 
you,  and  now  in  sight  of  a  cruel  death  I  swear  that  to  you 
I  have  been  true  in  thought,  word,  and  deed." — My  God! 
What  have  I  done  ?  I  have  driven  her  forth  to  perish  in 
30 


354  Blennerhasset?  s  Island. 

the  wide  wilderness.  She  is  dead,  and  I  her  murderer ! 
Sir,  you  were  right  to  kill  me — in  mercy  now  put  me  out 
of  my  misery. 

Burr.     Come,  come,  man,  it  is  not  so  bad  as  that.     I 
have  sent  some  trusty  fellows  on  the  trail,  and  if  naught 
goes  amiss  this  fair  woman  will  yet  be  saved. 
(Enter  Messenger?) 

Messenger.     Letters  for  Colonel  Burr. 

(BURR  opens  hastily  and  reads :) 

"Your  boats  have  been  seized  at  Pittsburgh  and  an 
officer  with  troops  is  on  his  way  with  orders  to  seize  and 
carry  you  in  irons  to  Washington." 

Burr.  So  the  French  Virginian  springs  his  trap  before 
the  prey  is  in  the  net.  It  is  unlucky,  though.  A  few 
more  days  and  I  were  far  beyond  his  reach. 

{Shouts  and  firing  heard.     Enter  OLD  GET.) 

Old  Get.     The  regulators  is  on  us ! 

Burr.  The  troops  are  gone,  and  I  have  sent  away  the 
best  of  our  men.  (To  BLENNERHASSETT,  who  sits  with  his 
face  in  his  hands.}  Rouse  up,  man ;  your  people  are 
being  killed,  your  home  will  be  destroyed. 

Blcn.  It  is  not  worth  the  saving.  Let  me  die  amid 
its  ruin. 

(Boatmen  and  soldiers  hurry  in  armed.) 

Burr.  Rally  here,  my  men  !  cut  loose  the  boats !  (A 
glare  of  light ,  showing  the  house  to  be  on  fire,  flashes  tip. ) 


Blennerhassett'* s  Island.  355 

What!  so  soon?  The  rogues  are  quick  and  sudden  in 
their  attack.  Fall  back  upon  the  camp — steady — steady 
men. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE:  As  in  previous  acts.  The  house  in  ruins,  trees  leaf- 
less and  snow  falling.  OLD  GET  and  MAHALA. 

Old  Get.  Winter's  come  as  suddint  as  the  regulators 
and  jist  about  as  onpleasant. 

Mahala.  Ef  it  had  n't  been  for  the  Colonel's  boat 
we  'd  a  froze  to  death. 

Old  Get.  Ef  it  had  n't  been  for  that  same  Kunnel  we 
would  n't  a 'lived  to  be  froze.  Jehosiphat!  but  he  did 
make  his  fellers  fight.  The  little  handful  was  as  firm 
under  him  as  a  rock,  and  fierce  as  tigers.  We  made  them 
regulators  take  to  water — git  up  and  git,  although  about 
ten  times  our  number.  I  tell  ye,  gal,  there 's  nothin'  like 
havin'  a  gineral  in  a  scrimmage.  The  boss  hisself  was  n't 
worth  a  continental  cuss. 

Mahala.     What  ailed  him  ? 

Old  Get.  Lord  only  knows.  He  seemed  all  of  a  daze. 
The  men  had  to  pull  him  out  of  the  fight.  He  jist  looked 
and  acted  like  a  dumb  beast  in  a  blaze.  Did  you  see  me 


356  Blennerhassetf  s  Island. 

fight,  little  gal  ?     Ef  it  had  n't  been  for  me  and  the  Kun- 
nel  wher  'd  you  bin,  eh  ? 

Mahala.     I  got  sight  of  you  onct  behind  a  tree. 

Old  Get.     And  did  n't  I  stand  firm  ? 

Mahala.     Agin  that  tree— yes;  you  was  a  huggin'  that 
tree  as  if  it  had  been  your  sweetheart. 

Old  Get.  That  was  high  old  strategy,  ye  see.  It  was 
my  pint  of  observation  to  command  knowingly.  Ye  see, 
that  was  jist  whar  I  saw  how  to  turn  their  flank  and  pepper 
'em  in  their  rear.  Me  an'  Kunnel  Burr  got  'em  bad 
behind,  and  that 's  what  scared  'em  worst.  As  we  was 
light  handed  I  never  leveled  old  Betsy  'till  I  could  take 
from  three  to  five  in  a  row.  Why,  fellers  died  here  by 
dozens  jist  a  wonderin'  what  ailed  'em.  Men,  I  '11  venture, 
went  home  to  their  families,  took  their  suppers  and  did  n't 
know  'till  they  poled  for  bed  that  they  was  mortally 
wounded.  When  I  was  in  Gettisburg — (Mahala  steals  off 
unnoticed  by  OLD  GET.)  — the  British  came  down  on  us  all 
of  a  suddint  and  began  firing  bombs  into  us.  I  was  a 
mere  boy  then,  but  what  does  I  do  but  pick  up  them 
bombs  afore  they  could  explode  and  throw  'em  back.  I'd 
a  killed  off  the  hull  army  but  for  an  unfortunate  bomb  that 
exploded  right  in  my  commissary.  It  knocked  me  into 
the  middle  of  next  week,  and  when  I  come  'round  they 
was  a  bury  in'  me  with  the  honors  of  war.  I  tell  ye,  gal, — 


Blennerhassetf  s  Island.  357 

Hello,    the    specimen    female    has   disappeared !      Well, 
women  has  no  'preciation  for  good  men  at  any  time. 
(Enter  BURR,  meeting  OLD  GET.  as  the  last  exits. ) 

Evening  to  you,  Kunnel — bad  weather,  Kunnel. 

Burr.  A  rough  day,  comrade.  My  life  is  in  its  wane. 
Success  no  longer  waits  upon  my  will.  There  was  a  time 
when  fortune  smiled  and  fate  seemed  at  my  bidding. 
Then,  fair  women  and  brave  men  loved  and  feared  me. 
But  since  that  fatal  moment,  when  with  cool  deliberate  aim 
I  sent  the  leaden  messenger  of  death  to  smite  mine  enemy, 
all  seems  changed.  What  I  seize  upon  fades  to  nothing- 
ness, and  my  cherished  projects  turn  to  ill.  Women  fear 
and  men  shun  me.  This  fair  isle  I  found  a  paradise,  is 
turned  in  one  short  day  to  desolate  nakedness.  Its 
peaceful  loving  life  went  out  in  violence,  and  yet  it  was  no 
deed  of  mine.  All  that  I  touch  drops  to  swift  decay.  I 
dreamed  to  build  an  empire  in  the  mighty  West.  The 
potent  governments  of  earth  gave  me  means.  What  could 
be  fairer  than  my  future  ?  And  now  my  boats  are  seized, 
my  men  arrested,  my  seeming  friends  turned  traitors,  while 
armed  emissaries  hurry  on  to  take  me  back  in  irons. 
Well,  well,  I  look  the  invisible  calmy  in- the  face,  and  let 
the  future  be  what  it  may,  no  man  shall  question  me  in 
doubt  upon  my  courage  or  my  power  to  hurt.  I  will  ful- 
fill my  destiny.  The  hand  that  gave,  the  poison  to  the 
snake  and  to  the  cruel  tiger  its  ravenous  appetite  gave 


35  8  Blennerhassetf  s  Island. 

man  his  impulse,  be  it  good  or  ill,  and  I  will  do  the  evil 
I  was  born  to  do.  When  I  die  no  monument  built  by  lov- 
ing hands  shall  mark  my  narrow  bed,  but  for  ages  after  my 
epitaph  shall  be  my  name,  and  men  will  say  a  dangerous 
man — no  one  crossed  his  path  and  lived.  (Entet  MIKE 
FINK.)  Well,  Fink,  what  success? 

Fink.  I  found  the  camp,  Wolf  wounded,  an  old 
medicine  man  making  him  worse,  and  Mrs.  Blennerhassett 
nursing  him. 

Burr.     Is  he  much  hurt  ? 

Fink.     Could  n't  be  much  worse  and  live. 

Burr.     You  brought  him  in  ? 

Fink.  Aye,  aye,  sir ;  we  obeyed  orders ;  made  a  litter 
for  the  wounded  man  and  toted  him  down ;  madam  treats 
him  as  she  would  a  child,  tho'  its  my  opinion  he  will  be  in 
hell  afore  he  reaches  here.  They're  comin'. 
Enter  number  of  men  carrying  WOLF,  followed  by  MRS.  BLEN- 
NERHASSETT, and  at  a  distance  BLENNERHASSETT. 

Burr.     How  fares  it  with  you,  man  ? 

Wolf.  I  think  this  little  trip  has  about  finished  the 
work. 

Mrs.  Blen.  Oh,  Colonel,  can  not  aid  be  obtained? 
Have  you  not  a  surgeon  with  your  men  ? 

Wolf.  (Lifting  himself  up.}  All  the  surgeons  in  the 
world  could  not  give  me  an  hour's  life.  Where  is  Blen- 
nerhassett ?  I  want  a  word  with  him  before  I  die. 


Blennerhassett' s  Island.  359 

Blen.     I  am  here. 

Wolf.  You  sought  my  wife ;  I  leave  you  my  widow. 
Do  not  start,  man — it  is  all  right.  You  saved  her  from  a 
brute. 

Blen.     I  never  knew  the  wrong  I  did  till  now. 

Wolf.  The  knowledge  comes  a  little  late.  Better 
late  than  never.  That  is  all  bosh.  You  can  now  repay 
the  wrong,  if  any  wrong  you  did.  I  made  her  wretched. 
It  was  the  husband's  right.  You  made  her  happy;  it  was 
the  lover's  right. 

Mrs.  Blen.  Oh,  Victor,  do  not  speak  thus ! .  You  will 
yet  live ;  we  will  nurse  you  back  to  life — we  will  have  a 
surgeon — you  are  only  exhausted  by  this  moving. 

Wolf.  A  priest  were  better  than  a  doctor  now.  I 
make  you  all  my  confessor.  I  have  sinned  to  the  best  of 
my  ability.  There  is  no  crime  I  have  not  committed  save 
what  a  gentleman  can  not  do.  I  have  not  forged  to  ob- 
tain your  property,  but  by  the  slow  torture  of  abuse  I 
have  made  your  life  more  terrible  than  death,  and  now,  in 
expiation  I  give  my  life  to  you  and  not  against  my  will. 
I  beg  you  to  observe  I  have  lived  a  gentleman  and  die  a 
man. 

Mrs.  Blen.     Do  not  think  of  dying,  Victor!     We  will 
save  you  yet. 

Wolf.  It  is  not  what  I  think  but  feel.  I  am  dead  in 
all  save  speech,  A  priest  who  could  absolve  us  all  were 


360  Blennerhassett' s  Island. 

best.  The  dying  sinner  he  could  confess  and  the  living 
sinners  he  might  absolve  by  marriage.  Give  me  your 
hand,  wife — my  left — the  right  is  in  its  grave.  I  have 
been  a  poor  devil,  though  a  gentleman ;  I  made  your  ex- 
istence a  misery ;  try  to  forgive  if  you  can  not  forget. 

Mrs.  Blen.     Can  you  forgive? 

Wolf.  With  all  my  heart.  Small  difference.  Here, 
Harman,  take  the  blessed  of  the  wicked.  The  chill 
reaches  my  heart,  and  night  is  gathering  on  my  eyes — you 
will  find  the  child— ah  !  (Falls  back  dead.) 

Burr.     With  him  the  world  is  ended. 

Blen.  Carry  him  to  the  garden.  We  will  make  his 
grave  amid  its  ruins,  and  his  requiem  shall  be  these  wintry 
winds  and  the  murmur  of  the  river's  waves  as  they  sweep 
by  his  lonely  tomb.  (They  carry  offWoLF.) 

Burr.  And  now,  my  friends,  what  will  you  do  with 
yourselves? 

Blen.  Drop  down  the  river  till  we  reach  New  Orleans, 
then  sail  for  Europe.  Will  you  not  fly  with  us? 

Burr.  Fly?  My  name  is  Aaron  Burr — I  go  to  face 
mine  enemies,  demand  their  proof,  and  defy  their  malice. 

CURTAIN. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 


STAMPED  BELOW 


OF  25  CENTS 


FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


U.  C.  BERKELEY 


LD  21-100m-7,'39(402s) 


GENERAL  LIBRARY -U.C.  BERKELEY 


800078010? 

esi 


M41958 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


